


Frontier Justice

by marlowe_tops



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate History, American West AU, Colorado Territory, M/M, PTSD, Post-American Civil War AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:17:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1562669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marlowe_tops/pseuds/marlowe_tops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unable to adjust to life in the wake of the American Civil War, Steve heads West looking for a new start. After Tony Stark talks him into coming to an obscure mountain town to serve as Deputy, Steve begins to investigate the outlaw gang calling themselves 'Russian Winter', only to find himself fixated on the outlaw who reminds him inexplicably of his childhood friend Bucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everything's Better in Leadville

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Desiderii, Dhampir72, eatingcroutons, and hedwig-dordt for edits, support, and tolerance of terrible jokes.

There was no one at the station to see him off.

Steve paused on the platform, looking back across the station. People jostled him on all sides, crowding into the train, and past the noise of the crowds and the locomotive engines was the noise of the city. Brooklyn--like most of the North--was burgeoning after the war, flooded with new immigrants, new-minted citizens, new opportunities. And he couldn’t bear it. Slamming doors woke him up every night, gasping alert with memories of gunfire and blood. His lively, vibrant city was flourishing, and Steve only felt trapped.

He’d participated in the reconstruction as long as he could, but it wore on his broken heart as the mess worsened and the atrocities stacked. A year after the war he had gone home, only to find that Brooklyn had moved on without him. Steve still felt like the war had never ended.

Lips tilting in a sad smile, he finished his one last glance over his hometown, and stepped onto the train.

Every compartment was filled with bickering adults and chattering children, and Steve made his way through them politely, offering smiles here and there but mostly just trying to find a single empty seat. Finally, in one of the cars near the front, he found an open seat by a window, neglected because the aisle seat next to it was occupied by a very plump gentleman leaning across the aisle to talk loudly to his family on the other side.

“Excuse me,” Steve said, touching him on the shoulder. “May I?”

“What? What? Oh, right you are, lad.” With some grunting and puffing, the gentleman got to his feet and stepped out of the way. Steve slid in against the window, tucking his sad little bag of possessions under the seat. As soon as he was in, the gentleman seated himself with a thud that shook the car. “Broad-shouldered thing, aren’t you?”

“You’ll have to forgive me for that,” Steve said, grinning sheepishly. He was crammed against the window and dwarfed by the man next to him, who promptly resumed his loud conversation with his wife and three children. Across from him was seated a sharp-faced woman on the aisle who cleared her throat indignantly every time someone brushed her with their bag in passing. After the third time this happened, Steve started fighting a smile at the way her tone increased in pitch every time, and he found himself trying not to wonder how high her harrumphs could get. The gentleman next to her wore a flawless dove-gray top hat with a silk band. As Steve sat down, the man lowered his newspaper just enough to take in the sight of Steve squashed in against the wall of the train, shared an amused grin with him, and raised his newspaper back up to continue reading.

The mass of people exchanged itself in Philadelphia as more than half the train scuttled out and was replaced by a new set, just as noisy. A mother and her fourteen-year-old daughter convinced Steve to move so that they could sit side by side. He settled down next to the man with the newspaper, who handed it over to him once he’d finished reading.

“Thanks,” Steve said, appreciative of the gesture, even though from the man’s shrug he supposed it was just as likely that he just didn’t want to hold it anymore. When the teenage daughter started shooting Steve big, flirtatious smiles, he turned red and hid gratefully behind the newspaper, noticing that the man next to him grinned when he did so.

In Pittsburgh, Steve reclaimed his seat next to the window, and passed off the newspaper to a grateful matron. Either the new throng of humanity was smaller, or Steve had simply gotten used to the noise. Fishing his sketchbook out of his bag, he started drawing the lively family of Irish immigrants sitting in a catercorner set of seats.

“Where to?” the man in the top-hat asked when the light outside was growing dim and Steve had to put down his sketchbook.

Steve looked up, considering him anew. His suit was impeccably tailored, but donned sloppily, with his necktie slightly askew. Steve smiled slightly at that, wondering if he’d still have a chance to draw him. “West.”

“Big area,” the man commented.

Steve sensed that he was being teased for not being more specific, but also that the man was willing to let the question go if he was wary of answering it. He smiled a little, feeling a sense of camaraderie. “Figured I’d go for as far as the tracks will take me, and then find work. I thought I might take up with the railroad.”

“Lot of soldiers working the railroad these days.”

Gaze locking on the stranger for a moment, Steve nodded. “That obvious?”

“We all fought in the war, in our own ways,” the man said. “I know the look on people who saw more of it than most.”

He didn’t offer sympathy, just acceptance. Steve appreciated that.

“Trains go as far as North Platte, Nebraska Territory,” the man said. “You can apply for work at the station there.”

Steve nodded his understanding. “Thanks.”

“Or you could take a stagecoach southwest into Colorado.”

Intrigued, Steve’s brows pulled together. “What’s in Colorado?”

“Gold, if you read the papers.”

Steve watched him, interest rising. “But you’re not after gold.”

“No. I have an interest in other minerals that can be pulled from the ground.”

“Such as?”

The man held his gaze, pausing a moment too long. “Silver.”

It wasn’t what he had initially meant to say. Steve was sure of it. “Silver,” he repeated, wondering what was more valuable than silver or gold that was under the ground in Colorado.

“There’s a little town in the Rocky Mountains, called Leadville. Richest silver deposits anyone has ever seen.”

Steve found himself smiling just a little. “Then why’d they name it Leadville?”

“Silver is mined in lead carbonate, smart alec.”

That smile widened a little further. He liked this man, and he was curious about Leadville. “And what kind of work might a man find in Leadville?”

“Depends. What was your rank, soldier?”

“Captain. 107th Infantry Division.”

The stranger considered him, and then nodded. “I have a sheriff who needs a deputy. You might be a decent candidate. And if that doesn’t pan out, there’s plenty of construction work, or I could always use able hands in the mines.”

Feeling hope start to return to its place in his chest, Steve held out his hand in greeting. “Steve Rogers.”

The gentleman in the top hat shook his hand neatly. “Tony Stark.”

Steve was startled. “Son of Howard Stark?”

“The same. Although I hope you’ll base your opinion off of my accomplishments rather than my father’s.”

Nodding, Steve gave him his best big, hopeful smile. “I’m sure I will.”

“Then we’ll get along just fine.”

With the lull in the conversation and the darkening sky outside, Steve leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, settling in to sleep where he was. He’d barely closed his eyes when Tony smacked his knee with a book.

Blinking, Steve lifted confused eyes to study his new friend’s face.

“Come on. There’s a spare bunk in my sleeping cabin.”

Steve opened his mouth to offer polite protest, but Tony was already up and walking away, so Steve had to grab his bag and follow after him. “You have a private cabin?”

“Of course I have a private cabin. Why would I ever not have a private cabin?”

That was a sensible question, and Steve found he had no answer. Of course the son of the renowned inventor and industrialist Howard Stark would have a private cabin. “I really can’t impose…”

“And yet here you are, following me. Ah, this is us.” Tony opened the cabin and looked around, nodding once in acceptance of what he found.

It was a tiny little compartment, but still an improvement on the military bunks Steve had slept in. “Fight you for the top bunk,” he said, teasing.

“Surely. Battle of wits?”

Steve put up his hands, grinning. “I surrender.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled for this long. Tucking his bag under the bunk, Steve collapsed onto the thin mattress, grateful for his new friend and the relief that he wouldn’t have to spend the next week sleeping upright in a stiff railway seat.

“Don’t you dare snore,” Tony warned.

Steve faked one, just for that.

~

They switched trains in Chicago, and then again in Council Bluffs, Iowa, where the shining new Union Pacific line stretched out west toward the horizon.

“Beautiful sight, isn’t it?” Tony asked, from where they were sitting in the expansive and mostly empty new railway station.

Steve gazed off down the tracks, cutting through the fields into Nebraska Territory. “The tracks of progress? I’m not sure. I heard those tracks evicted a lot of people from their farms and their homes.”

“There’s always a price for progress. They were compensated.”

“What’s the price for progress in Leadville, Mr. Stark?”

Tony turned his head to consider him, dark eyes scanning his face. “I suppose you’ll have to make up your own mind on that.”

“And who are you in this new town? The mayor?”

“Me? God have mercy. No, I’m just the financier. I come up with the crazy ideas and I trust the mayor, sheriff and my head of industries to find ways to implement them.”

That made Steve smile, and he had to admit he was reassured to know that there at least wasn’t a town in Colorado Territory somewhere missing its wayward industrialist mayor. “Why finance a town?”

“Vibranium.”

Head tilting with interest, Steve watched him closer, wondering if that was what he’d not said when he’d answered ‘silver’ earlier. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what that is.”

“Rarest mineral on Earth. And we found some of it, in the Climax mine. I will dig that mountain to the ground if there’s more.”

Steve’s brows lifted at that statement. “What is it used for?”

“It absorbs vibrations. Incredible stuff. We haven’t even figured out half the ways to implement it yet.”

“Huh.” Steve leaned back in his seat, wondering what kind of arrangement he’d gotten himself into. He needed a job, but he wasn’t sure how he felt about mining mountains to the ground for profit.

“There’s molybdenum, too. Not quite the easy money of the silver in Leadville, but the market for it is growing.”

“Molyb—“ Steve grimaced, bemused. “I really would have lost that battle of wits to you, wouldn’t I?”

“Molybdenum. Used in steel alloys.”

“And you’re going to use it for?”

“Steel alloys. And a few toys I might be developing. I’ll have to show you my workshop. I’m trying to use a vibranium-molybdenum alloy to build armor, but at the current juncture I have mostly just created the lack of explosions.”

Steve felt completely lost in this conversation, but he was somehow enjoying it despite that. “Isn’t the lack of explosions a good thing?”

“No, because things still get destroyed, it’s just that the vibranium dampens the actual explosion.”

Relieved when the train came to rescue him from this, Steve hopped to his feet. He still wondered, though, what Stark was up to with his odd little frontier town.

The train ended in North Platte, Nebraska. The tracks went on past that, seemingly to the horizon, but somewhere off in the distance they ended without a station.

“Still want to join the railroad, Rogers?” Tony asked, as they descended from the station steps along with a flurry of Union Pacific personnel and the few scattered passengers who had come with them to the end of the line.

Steve glanced over with a half smile. “Maybe if I don’t like Leadville.”

They chartered a stagecoach to Denver, which took them south through seemingly endless fields of long, dusty grass and herds of dark buffalo that seemed to be nearly as endless. Each animal seemed like it was near as big as the stagecoach, and when the herd moved across the road around them the horses made skittish noises and the whole stagecoach shifted while the buffalo pushed past. Once they saw an indian tribe crossing along a distant ridge, and the stagecoach men made a big deal of holding their guns across their laps so that the long dark barrels gleamed in the prairie sun.

Tony just frowned without a word, so that Steve wondered if it was the indians that bothered him or the stagecoach men. A few natives lingered back, looking across the plains at the stagecoach, but all of them eventually disappeared over the ridge, leaving the prairie to the possession of the stagecoach and the buffalo.

“That war tore this country apart in more ways than one,” Tony said some time later, and Steve pulled his head out of his heat-daze and blinked at him. “All of us have scars on our hearts from that war. But not them. It wasn’t their war. The war they’ve been fighting has been going on for centuries.”

It wasn’t the sentiment Steve had been expecting, and he felt an ache in his gut at the thought that there was a worse war in the world than the one that had destroyed their country’s hope and innocence and left the South in ruins. A war that was quietly, viciously ongoing, and had been for more than three centuries.

The July heat buzzed across the Great American Desert, making the air shimmer wetly. They stopped by a stream that was flanked on both sides by a stand of cottonwood, the only green trees they’d seen in two days, and Steve tried not to laugh as Tony spent the entire day sneezing.

When there weren’t buffalo, there were prairie dogs living in communities that went on for miles; fat little rodents who sat up on their hind legs and folded their paws politely as the stagecoach went by. Now and then one of them would raise up and seem to bow, in some gesture known only to it, but the motion seemed so peculiarly religious that Steve couldn’t help laughing. Then they’d all dart into their holes and Steve learned to look up at the sky to see a great hawk or eagle circling above, fat and sleek from prairie dog feasts past.

But they kept on, west and south, until the sharktooth blue smudge of the mountains finally broke the seam of the horizon.

“They’re snowcapped,” Steve said, leaning out the stagecoach window.

“What’s your point?”

“It’s _July_.”

“Yes, and we’re going right up to those snow caps. You up for a snowball fight in July, Rogers?”

Steve shot a grin at him, feeling like a kid again with the sense of freedom and exploration that he got from all this space. “I’d be willing.”

“You’ve never been out west, have you?”

“Never. Born and raised in Brooklyn. Only ever traveled for the war.”

“Well, you’re going to see some real mountains now. Better get used to them.”

Settling back into his seat but keeping an eye on the window, Steve tried to stop grinning like an idiot. “Your town, it’s in the mountains?”

“And how. Right up at the top. It’s the highest elevation for any town in the United States.”

“You’re kidding.”

Tony just shot him a cheeky grin, so Steve wasn’t sure whether or not he was jesting about building a town on top of a mountain.

The Rockies loomed higher as they moved further south and west, until they came to a dusty little town right where the land started to slope. It was made up of tiny one- or two-room cabins that all seemed to be trying to stack on top of each other in the midst of a barren plain, many of which seemed to have been damaged recently by fire and flood. Around the edges—and in some of the more badly damaged areas in the center—the town was made up more of tents than houses.

“Welcome to Denver,” Tony said.

“ _This_ is Denver? This can’t be Denver.”

“I can’t believe you’re questioning me.”

Steve frowned out the window again, taking in the disheveled campground of a settlement around them. “I thought Denver was a city.”

“Rough decade.”

They stayed in a ramshackle little two-story inn alongside Cherry Creek, sharing a room with two beds. Steve stood by the window, watching the city meander around repairing and improving itself. Some squabble broke out further down the creek, ending in a group of men throwing punches. Steve itched to intervene. The people closer to them seemed unconcerned, laughing and strolling in the twilight. He saw a pair of young men leaning against trees down by the water, talking softly and then falling silent as a brightly-dressed woman approached them to offer her services.

Steve pushed away from the window, feeling like a voyeur no matter how that interchange turned out. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

Tony shrugged. “Denver wasn’t expecting this, either. Fire, flood, the war, and they haven’t even been here a decade. Leadville’s not so bad off, but we only started building it after the war.”

“I saw Atlanta after the war,” Steve said, crossing his arms and sighing. “More fire, less flood.”

“More to burn than Denver ever had.”

Puzzled, Steve glanced over at him. “The war never came here.”

“No, but the fire and flood did. And then the grasshoppers.”

“Grasshoppers?”

“Pray you never see a grasshopper swarm that can devastate every plant for miles around, Rogers, that’s all I’m saying.”

Steve looked back out the window, where the big prairie sky was painted in colors of midnight and rose. He’d come west looking for hope and a fresh start. So had Denver, it seemed. “Tell me about your town.”

“We have good people,” Tony said, a grin crossing his face. “I’d be glad to tell you about it. Can we at least go get a drink instead of standing around the room like a pair of idiots?”

“Sure.” Steve followed him downstairs to where a surly barman served them barely-potable whiskey.

“We have better in Leadville,” Tony said, grimacing once the barman had turned his back.

“Everything’s better in Leadville,” Steve teased him.

“It is. We have good people, like I said. Hill, Carter, Wilson, Foster, even Odinson, although god only knows what he actually does other than drink heavily and then disappear for a week at a time. Banner acts as our town doctor, although he likes to spend his time complaining that he’s a physicist and therefore unappreciated. Foster runs the assay office and helps me identify the rocks that come out of our mines along with helping me figure out what to do with them. Wilson’s building an inn, and it helps that he owns the only piano in town, so every night the whole town crams into the front room to listen to Darcy’s godawful singing.”

Smiling again, Steve tried to picture that. “How big is your town?”

“Barely two hundred, but we’re growing fast.”

“What were you doing in Brooklyn?”

“Business. Now you’re snooping.”

Steve swirled his alcohol in his glass and then tried to knock back the rest of it without pulling a face. He didn’t succeed, and had to watch Tony fight laughter. Steve coughed, feeling his eyes water. “You have a lot of secrets.”

“I’m an open book. I told you about the vibranium, didn’t I?”

“Eventually.”

Tony shrugged. It seemed he thought ‘eventually’ was more than good enough for some upstart former Union soldier headed out west looking for something to renew his faith in humanity.

~

In the morning, Tony took him to a stable where they knew him and handed over two horses and packs of supplies without question.

“Tell me you can ride, Yankee,” Tony said, giving him a look over the withers of his horse.

Steve returned it as good as he got. “I was an army captain. I can ride.”

“You said infantry.”

“I can ride.”

Tony continued giving him skeptical looks until Steve swung up into the saddle, and then shrugged and got on his own horse.

“Saddle’s a bit different,” Steve allowed, watching Tony closer than he wanted to admit in order to pick up differences in handling between western horses and army horses.

“Yeah, well, cavalry saddle’s not the best thing for heading straight up a mountainside.” Tony shot him a grin as they rode out of town.

“How far to Leadville?”

“Hundred miles, and just the other side of the Continental Divide.”

Denver was still situated on the level plains that they’d been crossing for what felt now like weeks, but as soon as they got west of town the terrain steepened sharply; tumbling into hills, taller hills, and then the sky-stretched mountains behind.

Steve looked back as they crested the pass between two of the taller hills. They’d come so far since that conversation on the train. He could scarce fathom what awaited him in Leadville. 

Ahead of him, Tony rode on steadily, face lifted to the unfathomably blue sky. “Why me?”

“It eventually becomes depressing when I only have myself around to sass,” Tony answered, flippant as ever.

Steve smiled. “I’m serious. You traveled two weeks to Brooklyn on some kind of mysterious business, and on your way back you picked up a war-weary stray. You said you were looking for workers—you could have two dozen with you, easily, from Brooklyn. But instead you just chose me nearly at random from the train.”

“It wasn’t at random. You were the only one on the train who made me smile.”

“That’s your criteria for employment?”

“Of course.”

Steve shook his head, grinning again to himself. “One of these days I will figure out when you are and aren’t jesting.”

“I hope to delay that day as long as possible.”

They stopped for the night in an eyeblink of a town called Evergreen, and the next night in a busy mining town called Idaho Springs, which seemed to have an entire population of surly male miners with beards that threatened to engulf their heads. The third night they camped out under the stars, on just the thin packrolls that they’d received with the horses.

Steve’s breath caught as the sky darkened into night. Leaning back on his bedroll, he watched the sky flood with the milky way. He’d never seen it like this before—the lights of Brooklyn and the fires of military camps had always drowned out the watery light of the stars. But in the Colorado mountains, with no settlements within miles and the atmosphere stretched thin across the altitude, the stars glowed bright and pure.

“Can you see the stars in Leadville?” Steve asked, wishing that he had the capacity to draw this.

Tony shifted on his bedroll. “What? Of course you can see the stars in Leadville.”

“Like this, I mean.”

“Surely. It’s not like we have the infrastructure for street lamps.”

“I’ve never seen them like this. I get why they call it milky.”

Tony grunted sleepily, and then went quiet. Steve assumed that he’d fallen asleep until he spoke again. “I should probably tell you that we have a bandit problem.”

“A bandit problem?”

“Surely,” Tony replied, and then his tone shifted into the dry sarcasm that Steve was beginning to recognize. “Band of raccoons keeps stealing anything that’s not tied down. Darcy’s taken to calling them the Mitchells gang, although no one knows why. She insists that all raccoons are named Mitchell.”

“Who is Darcy?”

“As far as anyone can tell, she works as an assistant in the assay office. Functionally, she keeps the town’s spirits up. She’s also the only woman in town willing to sing when Sam Wilson plays the piano, so that makes her popular even though her talent is questionable.”

Steve found himself smiling, the way he always did whenever Tony started talking about the people of Leadville. He didn’t know them yet, but they all seemed so familiar. Mayor Hill. Sheriff Carter. Banner, Wilson and Odinson.

“We have a real bandit problem, too.”

“Worse than the raccoons?”

“I have a problem with your sarcasm, Rogers.”

“Tell me about the bandits,” Steve said, offering a temporary truce in their jesting.

“Frontier towns always have problems. Hostile tribes, wild animals, bandits. The bandit problem has gotten worse across the West in the past two years. Lots of disenfranchised Confederate soldiers who no longer have homes and are looking for a war to fight. We have some of those. They’re not particularly good at what they do, so the ones in our area tend to bounce in and out of jail, but there are exceptions.”

Tony fell silent, and Steve glanced over at his form in the darkness. “Exceptions?”

“There’s one group that calls themselves ‘Russian Winter’. At least two of them are Russians, and there are at least three in the gang, including a woman. That’s all we know, except that they’re very good. They’ve been terrorizing towns from Breckenridge to Fairplay for a year now. Leadville’s mostly been spared, but we don’t exactly have much to take just yet.”

“But you do. With your molybdenum and vibranium.”

“Maybe. You ever known bandits to be interested in anything but gold and silver, Rogers?”

Steve remembered a time in the war when he’d entered a town in the south only to bump into a trio of Union soldiers leaving, arms full of valuables and laughing. Steve had stopped in his tracks, words going dry in his throat as he looked out across the burnt town, with the wail of a woman sobbing somewhere nearby. That laughter still haunted his heart and his dreams.

“Yes,” he answered, although he wasn’t thinking of precious metals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story takes place in 1867. Leadville is a real place, as is the nearby Climax mine. Both are described accurately aside from artistic license with dates and characters. As a minor history note relevant to Steve's home, Brooklyn at the time was a “twin city” to New York, and didn’t get absorbed until 1898.


	2. I Offered Them Jobs

“There, that’s Bartlett mountain, with the Climax mine,” Tony said, pointing.

Steve drew his horse up, following Tony’s finger to where there was a hole in the side of the mountain, with a spill of tailings painting the slope below. The elevation made him breathless and dizzy. He often had to focus on remembering to breathe so that his lungs could get enough of the thin mountain air. It felt strange, wearing a jacket in July while the sun beat down from a clear blue sky.

Tony had led them above treeline for this part of their journey, and Steve kept his mouth shut on the opinion that people had no business building towns at altitudes that were too high even for trees to grow. But the riding was easier without the sharp pine branches lashing at him, and the alpine terrain was like nothing he’d ever seen.

His guide pointed out fauna as they saw it, although he knew less about the flora. There were shaggy-coated mountain goats with great whorled horns, and a breed of tiny darting chipmunks that looked like striped mice. Steve decided that his favorites were the little fat things the size of the prairie dogs who kept sitting on rocks and chirping in reprimand as they rode past. “What do you call the judgmental rodents?”

Tony looked over at where he was pointing. “Pikas. Probably because of the sound they make. Pik pik pik. And they’re not rodents, they’re closer to rabbits.”

“I didn’t quite catch that. Could you do it again?”

“Is it too late to leave you on that train?”

“Pik pik pik.”

Only the tallest mountains still had snow on them, and most of that was only in patches and clefts where the sun never reached. Steve jumped down from his horse when he found a patch of snow in the shadow of a large boulder. Patting together a snowball, he tossed it at Tony’s back, and watched it splatter between his shoulder blades in a spray of white.

“Rogers, you damned child,” Tony said, giving him his best impression of a responsible and mature glower. “I’m going to make you sleep in the snow.”

Steve patted together another snowball and tossed it up and down threateningly. The late season snow had a hard crust of ice and was flecked liberally with dirt. No good for a real snowball fight unless they wanted to be covered with bruises. He swung back onto his horse, continuing to toss it up and down casually until his horse took a step that faltered and he missed. The snowball smashed white across the rocky ground, and Steve shook droplets off his hand, which felt numb. Worth the teasing, but he was glad it was gone.

“So is this the Continental Divide?” Steve asked, looking out across the visible ridges of the mountains.

Tony laughed. “Surely is, although Fremont pass is one of the gentler parts of the Divide. You’ll be able to see Mount Massive once we get to Leadville.”

Subtle name. Steve looked back at the peak of Bartlett and grimaced. “I take it that it’s … bigger.”

“Just a touch,” Tony agreed, with a wide grin.

“And you built Leadville on top of it?”

Tony’s laugh was a loud, surprised bark. “Is that what you’re picturing? No, Leadville’s below treeline.”

Taking a relieved breath, Steve nodded.

“Barely.”

Choking on that breath, Steve started coughing, and had to focus on just breathing for a minute so that he wouldn’t pass out from the thin air. Tony kept grinning.

“Why found a town, though, really? You said it was for the vibranium, but you would have had to be already out here, or someone else would have found it. You had to be looking for something.”

“You’re not the only one running away from memories of the war, Cap.”

Steve thought that over, his horse falling into step beside Tony’s as they came around a bend. “I heard that Stark—“

He stopped talking with a sharp intake of breath.

Three mounted figures blocked the road ahead of them, weapons drawn. The curve of the mountain had hidden them until the last possible second, but it was clear that they had been waiting.

The central figure was a woman, her curves visible through the fitted trousers she wore and filling out the front of her loose white shirt. Her hair was concealed beneath a wide-brimmed hat and most of her face obscured by a red kerchief, but her gender was unmistakable. As was the steadiness and confidence with which she held her gun.

To her right was a man with a drawn bow and a faded purple kerchief, and to her left was a man with a gun and a black kerchief, his dark, lank hair hanging forward from beneath the brim of his hat.

“Mister Stark,” the woman said, Russian accent heavy in her voice. “If you wouldn’t mind terribly, we’re taking alms for the poor.”

“We’ll give you no trouble,” Tony said, showing her his hands. He gave Steve a look, which Steve hoped was supposed to be confirmation. No trouble. Keeping his movements slow, Tony reached into one of his saddle bags and drew out a coin purse, tossing it in a gentle arc over to the woman. She caught it easily, opening it and inspecting the contents.

“So what do they call you, Mother Russia?” Tony asked. 

The man with the gun replied in Russian, with what sounded like expletives. So these were indeed the bandits that Tony had warned him about. Russian Winter. Odd name for a gang.

“What about him?” the woman asked, nodding toward Steve.

“Penniless former soldier,” Tony said. “He doesn’t have anything for you.”

“That so?” she asked, putting down her gun and nudging her horse forward a step, while the men on either side of her held their positions. “Then I’m not sure this is enough, Mr. Stark. I think—“

The man with the gun interrupted her with something else in Russian. Surprised, the woman turned and looked at him, holding his gaze for a moment before nodding casually. “Right. That will do, then, Mr. Stark. On your way.”

She drew her horse to the side, and her companions did the same, leaving enough room for the two of them to pass.

“Pleasant day to you,” Tony quipped, nudging his horse forward and continuing along the road to Leadville. Steve followed after him and looked back once they’d passed. The three bandits were making their way north down the mountainside, back into the treeline. But one of them, the man in black, paused on the road to watch Steve and Tony ride away.

He had Bucky’s blue eyes.

It was a stupid thought, although it locked Steve’s gaze on him, mouth suddenly dry. The bandit turned and followed his companions down toward treeline, and Steve watched him, numbly letting his horse pick its own trail. He’d thought that his guilt and grief over Bucky was deeper buried than that, but it seemed a pair of ice blue eyes was all it took to bring it roaring to the surface.

~

They rode in silence the rest of the way.

The odd little encounter had been relatively harmless, but it was sobering. Steve had heard plenty of stories about frontier justice and the wild west, and knew that they’d been lucky not to have been robbed or attacked before now. And yet it was little comfort that the robbery had happened when they were only miles from Leadville. Steve wondered what kind of resources he would have to put an end to the gang, if he was going to be the Sheriff’s deputy. He wondered what the Sheriff had already done.

When they climbed the crest of the last hill, [Steve’s breath caught in awe](http://www.stinasieg.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/Leadville.jpg). A vast basin of land spread out beneath them, cradled by a fence of mountain peaks, with one incredibly large mountain off on the far side of the basin. The range of peaks that capped it was painted white with snow and crowned with a swathe of silver clouds. At the center of the basin was a little knot of cabins, completely dwarfed by the vista on all sides.

Tony paused, looking back over his shoulder to grin at Steve’s reaction. “ _That’s _Leadville.”__

__Steve gave him a lopsided grin in return. “I’m sorry, but it’s not your _town_ I’m gaping at. If you can even call that a town.”_ _

__“Bigger than whatever town you founded,” Tony said, nudging his horse forward down the slope._ _

__The whole town was comprised of about thirty buildings, several of which still seemed to be in stages of construction. It shared the architectural habit that he’d seen in all the other towns along the way, of putting tall, two-story decorated facades on the main street buildings and leaving the rest as an unadorned one-story wooden shack. The main buildings—an inn, a general store and the sheriff’s office—faced each other across a wide main boulevard. Steve had the stray thought that you could fit every house in the town inside the space of that boulevard._ _

__Head tilting as they stopped in front of the inn, Steve looked from it to Tony in puzzlement._ _

__“Here’s Wilson’s inn. He’ll be able to put you up. And if you decide you’re staying, you can find men to help you build yourself a place.”_ _

__Steve struggled for words to try to express his particular objection to the inn. “… It doesn’t have a roof.”_ _

__Tony considered the inn, and then Steve. “What’s your point?”_ _

__Stymied with how to respond to that if the problem wasn’t self-evident, Steve opened and shut his mouth a few times. “What if it rains?”_ _

__“You’ll be fine.” Tony swung down from his horse, tying it to a post in front of the inn._ _

___Long walk back to the train depot._ Accepting whatever his fate brought him, Steve slid down from his horse as well, hitching it up and grabbing his bag off the back before following Tony inside. For as much of an ‘inside’ as the inn could offer. The ceiling was completely open to the heavens, but aside from that the place was laid out nicely with wooden tables and chairs, a stocked bar along one wall and an upright piano tucked against the other._ _

__It seemed no one had told the locals about the common expectation of roofs for buildings, because the place was occupied. A young woman in a brightly ruffled red dress sat on the top of the piano, two men sat at one table, and a cheerful barman stood behind the bar._ _

__“Tony!” the young woman cheered, raising her arms into the air in celebration._ _

__“Oh, good, you lot are still here,” Tony said, giving the young woman a wink. “I was worried you might have all up and abandoned my town while I was away.”_ _

__“We thought about it,” she informed him. “I was outvoted.”_ _

__Smiling sheepishly as he looked around the room, Steve watched how easily the millionaire industrialist seemed to fit into this remote mountain town. He seemed right at home here, far more than he had back on the train leaving from Brooklyn._ _

__“Right.” Tony cleared his throat to gain silence. “This is Steve Rogers. I intend to feed him to the Sheriff. If Carter won’t have him, I’ll stuff him in a mine or something. Steve, this is Dr. Bruce Banner, who is under the increasingly mistaken assumption that he is a physicist.” The unassuming brown-haired man at the table nodded in greeting._ _

__“Thor Odinson.” Next to the physicist was a tall, broad-shouldered man with long blond hair who grinned broadly and lifted his tankard in toast. Steve was put in mind of a very friendly, slightly drunk grizzly bear._ _

__“The young lady who is unclear on proper uses of furniture is Miss Darcy Lewis.” She waved brightly. Bemused but enjoying himself, Steve waved back._ _

__“And finally, your host, Sam Wilson.” Tony leaned against the bar, jerking a thumb back toward Steve. “Tell me you’ve got somewhere to put him.”_ _

__“I think I’ve got somewhere.”_ _

__If this was a prank, it was a remarkably well-rehearsed one. Steve stepped forward, shaking his head with a puzzled grin. “I mean no disrespect, but you haven’t got a roof.”_ _

__Sam looked back at him with a stern face like those were fighting words. “What’s your point?”_ _

__Flushing sheepishly, Steve rubbed at the back of his head. “It does _rain_ here, right? Snow? You people do know what roofs are?”_ _

__Cracking a grin, the innkeeper laughed and nodded. “We’ve finished the roof for the back rooms, don’t worry. And there’s a tarpaulin that goes over the piano in case of rain. As for the rest of it, we’ll get there.”_ _

__“I like it this way,” Darcy piped up._ _

__“Tony, there you are.”_ _

__Steve turned as a dark-haired woman in a long green skirt and crisp white blouse walked through the door, heading straight for Tony and then stopping as she noticed the newcomer. She looked him over, gaze sharp and weighing. “Hello. Welcome to Leadville.”_ _

__“Ah! Maria, good. This saves me tracking you down. May I present Captain Steve Rogers. Cap, this is Mayor Hill.”_ _

__Steve’s mouth fell open. It would seem that the elaborate jokes of this place had not yet finished. “The _mayor_ ,” he repeated, stunned._ _

__The room around him went silent._ _

__Holding his gaze with straight spine and chin up, the woman very slightly lifted a brow. “That’s correct.”_ _

__Blushing to the tips of his ears, Steve tried to remember how to talk, and managed to offer his hand in greeting. “It’s an honor, Ma’am.”_ _

__“Sir,” she corrected, with a give-no-quarter gaze that would have made any number of his army superiors proud. She shook his hand firmly, and then Steve forgot to let go as it clicked in his head what Tony had called her. “You’re Maria Hill.”_ _

__Her eyes went cold, and she took her hand back. “I am.”_ _

__She had every reason to be defensive. Steve had seen the cartoons of her in the papers. They’d called her the ‘Petticoat Monkey Soldier.’ She’d been one of the greatest laughingstocks of the war, and it had nearly cost General Nicholas Fury his career. Everyone knew the story: he’d made his mistress into a Major General, and she’d been allowed to strut around battlefields giving orders._ _

__Except that Steve had seen her strategies in action. They were the best in the war, whether or not General Fury was present. Steve fell to attention and brought his hand to his forehead in salute. “I fought in the 107th, Major General. Your strategy helped to win us the war.”_ _

__A very slight smile crossed her lips. “At ease, Captain. It’s Mayor Hill now.”_ _

__“Darn,” Darcy said. Everyone in the room turned to look at her, and she put her hands up in a defensive gesture. “What? I wanted to see her punch him out.”_ _

__“Maria, if you’ll excuse us,” Tony said, shaking her hand briskly. “Sam, will you put Steve’s bag somewhere? I’m going to go introduce him to the Sheriff, see if she’ll have him.”_ _

__“Sh—“ Steve started to say, then quickly shut his mouth and turned red before he made an idiot of himself again. She. On the entire trip here, Tony had almost exclusively referred to the townsfolk by their last names. But now that they were here, it turned out he more frequently used first names. Steve supposed that was fair. Most men would have flat out refused him if he’d said on the train that he had a town run by Mayor Maria Hill and a female sheriff to boot. Steve wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have done the same._ _

__Maria and Tony were looking at him as if they were waiting to see if he was going to insult the sheriff sight unseen. Steve didn’t dare turn around to find out what looks the rest of the room might be giving him._ _

__Unable to find words, Steve dropped his eyes awkwardly, biting the inside of his cheek in order to try and calm the blushing._ _

__Mayor Hill folded her arms, stance shifting. “Darcy, you should tag along, you might still get that wish.”_ _

__“Yes!” Darcy cheered, jumping down from the piano. The tall blond man started laughing._ _

__Steve couldn’t tell how much he was being teased or how likely it really was that one of these women was going to punch him. But he was willing to trust Mayor Hill’s competence, after what he’d seen of her strategy in the war. And if Tony had somehow acquired a war hero to be his mayor, Steve was curious about whom he’d made Sheriff._ _

__Surrendering his bag, Steve stuffed his hands in his pockets and lifted his chin, waiting to be led to the sheriff. Tony held out his elbow, and Darcy latched happily onto it._ _

__“Pleasure to meet you all,” Steve said, giving the room a little salute and then giving Mayor Hill a proper salute before following after Tony._ _

__As soon as they were outside, Darcy released Tony’s arm. “I’m going to go tell Jane. Tell Peggy not to punch him until I get there.”_ _

__“You got it,” Tony promised, grinning after her and then returning his attention to Steve._ _

__“Jane?”_ _

__“Dr. Jane Foster,” Tony answered, studying Steve’s expressions. “You doing all right, Captain?”_ _

__“You didn’t tell me,” Steve said, although it was more a statement of shock than a complaint. He shook his head, processing this new information. “I guess I only have one question. Back east, and from every other town we’ve been through since Iowa—I’d heard it was one woman to twenty men out west. But here, the _mayor_ , the _sheriff_ , a _doctor_ and … well, Darcy.”_ _

__“There’s also Pepper Potts, my head of industries, and Natasha, who works as an alternate deputy two days out of each week.”_ _

__“ _How_?” Steve asked, feeling like his world was reeling._ _

__A bemused expression flickered over Tony’s face, like he thought it was obvious. “I offered them jobs.”_ _

__Steve rubbed a hand over his face. His mother had always been a strong supporter of women’s suffrage, and had raised him with those ideals. But Steve had been legally considered the man of the family since his father’s death. He remembered signing documents on his mother’s behalf before he could even read._ _

__Heart aching with the sudden wish that his mother would have been able to see this place and to meet these women, Steve nodded that he was okay to continue._ _

__He’d offered them jobs. Steve could imagine how that might have gone. One of the greatest tacticians of the war, now the laughingstock of the country, and Tony had made her the genuine offer to run a town. A fresh start out west. Of course she would have taken it. The rest must have been similar. Of course Tony could have the most brilliant and capable women in the country just by asking, because no one else would._ _

__Darcy returned to them by the time they’d crossed the street, cheerful as ever. “She’s doing science.”_ _

__“I think it’s fair to assume that if she’s ever _not_ doing science, she’s dead,” Tony said, letting Darcy latch onto his arm again as he led them into the Sheriff’s office._ _

__The little one-room building consisted of two desks and an empty cell, which was really just bars placed across the back of the room. A smartly-dressed woman sat at the larger desk, busy working on an array of papers in front of her. She looked up at their entrance, blinking as she took in the little group._ _

__“Peggy, this is—“ Tony started._ _

__“—Captain Steve Rogers of the 107th something something,” Darcy interrupted cheerfully. “Tony said he was gonna feed him to you but I think he meant deputizing. Mayor Hill didn’t punch him so I was hoping you would.”_ _

__Darcy looked proud of herself. Tony made a hand gesture to indicate ‘what she said, and no, that’s fine, I didn’t really _need_ to talk.’_ _

__“Does he need to be punched?” Peggy asked, setting aside her pen and rising to her feet. She had a refined British accent, but there was as much of a soldier’s stance in her as there had been in Maria. She wore a similar style of unadorned long skirt and fresh white blouse that Maria had, although Peggy’s was unbuttoned at the throat and she wore a pewter owl pin on one lapel._ _

__“I genuinely hope not, ma’a—“ Steve stopped himself. Sir? “Sheriff.”_ _

__Crossing the room, Peggy looked him over appraisingly. “The 107th?”_ _

__“Infantry Division. Union Army.”_ _

__She offered her hand. “Colonel Peggy Carter, 2nd United States Sharpshooters Infantry Regiment.”_ _

__Steve’s eyebrows went way up. Another war hero, who had served under General Nick Fury. He’d heard of her by reputation, although he’d always assumed that ‘Peggy’ was just an odd nickname._ _

__Shaking her hand at once, he felt his blush returning. “It’s an honor, ma—Colonel.”_ _

__“Sheriff,” Peggy corrected gently, although her smile was openly pleased by his reaction._ _

__“She’s not gonna punch him, is she?” Darcy sighed, disappointed._ _

__“You might be out of luck on that count,” Tony answered. “But I do think we might have a new deputy. Peggy, if you can’t use him, send him back to me and I’ll put him to work somewhere. I’ll leave the two of you to get acquainted.”_ _

__“Can I stay and watch? Just in case?”_ _

__Steve saw the way Tony glanced to Peggy. He really did respect his Sheriff’s authority. “No,” Tony said, steering Darcy toward the door. “Go annoy Jane. Aren’t you supposed to be her assistant?”_ _

__“Yes but rocks don’t _punch each other_.”_ _

__The smile on Peggy’s lips twitched as Tony and Darcy bickered their way out the door, leaving her alone with Steve._ _

__The first thought through his head was that this wasn’t respectable without a chaperone, but he pushed that thought away with effort._ _

__“Well, Captain,” Peggy said, eyes returning to Steve. “You’re interested in a job as a deputy?”_ _

__Steve tightened his posture, giving her the nod of respect that he would have given any Colonel of the war. “If you’ll have me.”_ _

__“Can you shoot straight?” She turned away, opening a chest set behind her desk and taking out a rifle. Returning to stand in front of him, she held it out._ _

__“I’m capable.” Taking the gun without question, Steve checked it, then looked at her in puzzlement._ _

__“It’s a Winchester,” she explained, reaching out to open the loading gate for him. “Fires like a Henry, but much improved.” Handing him the bullets and powder he needed, she watched as he figured out the differences in the model and loaded the gun. “Let’s go,” she said, leading him outside and down the boulevard until they were out of town. It wasn’t a very long walk. She pointed to a nearby pine stump._ _

__Lifting the gun, Steve took a shot, hitting a bole on the tree dead on. His second shot hit slightly to the right, and Steve lowered the barrel, impressed. “Hell of a gun.”_ _

__“Hell of a shot,” Peggy replied, giving him a nod of acceptance. “Good. We’ll give you a try.”_ _

__“Just like that?”_ _

__“Stark thinks you’re capable, you can shoot, and I need a deputy.” Turning back toward town, she headed back toward the Sheriff’s office. “What did he tell you to get you to come with him?”_ _

__“I’m not even certain. He made me curious. I was headed west looking for work. Any work. He offered that, and he made me smile.”_ _

__“It’s a rough job. Can get messy. You got out of the war. Are you sure you want to be holding a gun again?”_ _

__“I’m not sure what I am if I’m not a soldier. I’m hoping that maybe as a deputy I can respect myself again.”_ _

__That caught her interest. She looked over, considering him. “Why’d you stop?”_ _

__“I went into the war to protect people, Sheriff. Men fought for a lot of different reasons in that war, but me, I was fighting for freedom and human rights.”_ _

__“I thought that we had succeeded.” Peggy pushed open the door to her office, returning to stand by her desk._ _

__“We devastated the south, Sheriff,” Steve said, voice hard. He leaned against the opposite desk, watching her with the same weighing gaze that she was giving him. “Atlanta was razed to the ground. Farms were pillaged. Women raped. Children killed. Some days I found it hard to believe that we were the heroes.”_ _

__Her face showed no reaction, just steady consideration. “There are no heroes, Captain. Just men negotiating power.”_ _

__“With respect, Colonel, I don’t believe that.”_ _

__She smiled very slightly and nodded once. “I look forward to seeing you prove me wrong, Deputy Rogers.”_ _

__Smiling in return, Steve unloaded and then offered her the gun. “I don’t want to be carrying this around.”_ _

__“It’ll be in the lockbox if you need it. I’ll have Odinson make you a key. We just found out that he’s a decent blacksmith.” Taking the gun, she put it away and offered him a six-shooter instead._ _

__“Is that necessary?”_ _

__“Out here? Yes. It is. You’ve got bandits, claim-jumpers, indians. They’ll be armed. You should be, too.”_ _

__“What if I’d like to resolve things without shooting?”_ _

__“Then don’t draw your gun.” Sheriff Carter kept holding out the weapon, waiting for him to take it. Reluctantly, Steve did._ _

__“I have to admit I don’t know the job requirements of a Sheriff’s Deputy in a town like this,” Steve said, settling his holster into place on his belt._ _

__“Defend the peace. Protect our residents. Resolve mining claim disputes. If I don’t have anything else for you, you’ll be at the inn stopping fights. Try to stay reasonably sober.”_ _

__“That won’t be a problem.”_ _

__“You’ll meet Natasha soon. She’s our notary and paralegal. She comes into town every week or two and helps me with paperwork and any legal matters that need to be settled.”_ _

__That sounded like an odd arrangement, and Steve wasn’t sure where to start with asking questions about it. “Does she do that for a lot of towns?”_ _

__“Just us, as far as I know. She lives a few miles north of here with her husband. Keeps to herself, mostly.” Crossing to the map posted on one of the walls, she considered it. “I expect you’ll need the day to settle in. Once you have, I’ve got a job for you.”_ _

__Interested, Steve came over to consider the map._ _

__“There’s a claim-jumper who’s been giving our locals trouble. Name of Georges Batroc. He’s learned better than to come into town after I shot at him last time, but I need his attacks stopped. He’s wanted on counts of claim-jumping, robbery and murder. I don’t necessarily need him brought in alive.”_ _

__“Is that frontier justice?” Steve asked._ _

__“That’s me telling you that if he shoots at you, you shoot back.”_ _

__Steve didn’t like that, but he nodded. “Understood, Sheriff.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My research suggests that Tony is incorrect about the reason pikas are called that, but the dialogue was too cute to cut.  
> [Historic precedent for a female mayor out West at this time in history.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Susanna_M._Salter)


	3. Batroc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be warned that Steve is a PTSD survivor, and this chapter deals rather directly with topics of war and death.

Steve rode out the next morning. He felt a little more human after the cold-water bath Sam had provided, along with a set of clean clothing.

Sheriff Carter pointed him in the direction of where Batroc’s camp was suspected to be and handed him the Winchester.

“Is this a test?” Steve asked her, taking the rifle.

“Of course.” She smiled up at him and patted the side of his horse’s neck. “Do try to come back alive, will you?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

Darcy waved cheerfully from the door of the assay office as he rode past. “Punch him!”

Grinning and biting his lip to fight a laugh at that, Steve waved at her. “I’ll do what I can.”

He headed south-west from town, pausing at the first ridge he reached to look back. Leadville. It wasn’t home yet, but he was willing to fight to protect it. Beyond that, the peaks stretched out to the horizon. And somewhere far, far past the mountains and plains was Brooklyn.

He’d met Bucky in Brooklyn when they were children. They’d both lived in a crowded tenement, and had become fast friends. For almost ten years, Bucky had been the center of his world.

Frowning at himself, Steve shook his head and nudged his horse forward along their way. During the war and the reconstruction, mourning had been a luxury he couldn’t afford. And afterward, he’d been so shaken and jittery that all he could do was box his emotions away and hope that he could deal with them later.

Now, for the first time in years, in his whole life, he was alone.

The trees closed in around him as he rode on. Deep evergreen woods scattered across the mountains, scenting the air with pine and spruce. There was no city, no army, just the wilderness and his task.

When Bucky was sixteen, his parents had died in one of the cholera epidemics, and Bucky had gone south to live with his grandparents in Virginia. Steve hadn’t seen him again until the war. It still felt like there was a hole in his heart where Bucky belonged, and he didn’t know if that was ever going away.

Batroc’s camp was almost a day’s ride from Leadville. Steve paused each time he cleared a ridge, looking back to make certain he’d remember the way and carefully checking each set of mountains against what he’d remembered from the map. There wasn’t much to go on. Their map was largely incomplete, especially the further that he went from Leadville.

It was a stroke of luck that he spotted smoke from a fire while there was still light in the sky. Altering his course down into the valley, Steve carefully loaded the rifle and carried it across his lap as he moved closer. Leaving the horse a safe distance away, he crept forward. There was one man near a campfire, eating from a can of beans. The camp around him had a sense of semi-permanence. A little lean-to shelter hunched over a bedroll, and discarded cans and other trash littered the site.

Choosing his ground carefully, Steve aimed the rifle and took a shot, putting a hole through the center of the can lid. “Move and the next one goes through your head.”

Having dropped the can when it was shot, the man very carefully put his hands up, looking around for his opponent. “Who’s there?”

Steve straightened up so that he could be seen, but kept his rifle aimed. “Are you Georges Batroc?”

“Who the hell wants to know?” He had a French accent, that was certain. Steve felt confident that he had his man.

“Deputy Sheriff Steve Rogers of Leadville. Are you Georges Batroc?”

“You going to shoot me if I am?”

“Not if you come along willingly.”

“Coming along willingly, deputy. Seems like a coward’s move, taking captives over dinner.”

That rankled Steve’s pride. “Not so much as claim-jumping and murder. Stand up slowly.”

“Can I get my things?”

“Yes. Slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Surely will, deputy.”

Moving slowly, Batroc gathered a few things around the campground. It all looked like detritus to Steve, but he wasn’t going to judge what the man thought of as keepsakes as long as Batroc came with him.

And then Batroc spun, firing off a shot and ducking.

Steve fired.

The forest seemed to go silent. Steve’s ears rang with the shot, and the moment hung in the air for a heartbeat as Batroc slumped, and fell.

_A Henry rifle in his hands, laying on the slope of a hill, his platoon waited unseen as the Confederate soldiers charged up it. An order, the discharge of guns, filling the air with black powder smoke. Steve’s finger pressed the trigger moments late, his shot ringing in the silence after the rest. And the Confederate soldier who staggered, blood staining out across his chest, and fell dead mere feet away, arm outstretched in Steve’s direction. The first man he’d ever killed._

Batroc didn’t move.

This wasn’t war. This was justice, or something like it. Steve was what passed for the law in this region. And yet he’d just killed a man without a trial, without even confirming his identity. He felt sick.

Shaky, he walked forward, keeping his gun leveled at the body just in case Batroc was still capable of getting off a shot. As he got closer, it was clear that wasn’t the case. The bullet had gone through his skull.

“God rest your soul,” Steve said, kneeling by the dead man’s side.

There was no reason to take the body back to Leadville, but Steve couldn’t just leave it. 

Carrying him to a clearing that wasn’t far back, Steve covered the body with a cairn of stones to keep the wild animals away. By the time he was done, it was full dark, and he was exhausted.

He watered his horse at the stream by the campsite. She could graze in the clearing.

It would be smart to try and sleep, since he couldn’t head back to town until morning. But there was no real chance of sleep, so he simply sat and watched the stars until the moon came up and lit the world in silver. He felt numb.

_Is that frontier justice?_

_That’s me telling you that if he shoots at you, you shoot back._

Giving up on sleep, Steve returned to the campsite. Stirring up the dying embers of the fire, he added some wood and then searched the camp by firelight. He found a couple more guns, a pouch with a few small gold nuggets and a set of gold earrings, unopened bottles and cans, some tattered blankets, a small stack of furs, and broken bottles aplenty. Taking only the guns and the pouch, Steve returned to his horse, and set a careful pace back toward Leadville.

They were able to move a little faster once the sky began to lighten and Steve didn’t have to take such care with their path. He let the horse rest and caught a couple hours of sleep himself around dawn, heading out again once the sun was starting to climb above the nearest mountain peak.

He kept carefully to his route, worried constantly that he would lose his way and wander for days. His survival skills were limited to what he’d been taught in the war, and that all applied to a very different environment than the Rocky Mountain wilderness. At last, however, he climbed a ridge and saw the familiar peaks of Massive in the distance.

Still several hours out from Leadville, he saw movement on a ridge across from him. It was still some distance out, but near enough that he could make out three figures, parallel to his own route and heading south. Three figures. A flash of red, and a flash of purple, the last of the three in unrelenting black. They stopped as well, seeing him, and the woman raised her hand in greeting before continuing on along their way.

The Russian Winter gang. He wondered if they were coming from Leadville, and felt a rush of guilt that he hadn’t been there when there was trouble. But the gang seemed to be traveling relatively light. Surely they would be carrying more if they’d just raided a town.

It still seemed like a strange name for a gang. The gangs he knew tended to be named after their leader or leaders. Russian-Winter? But Tony had given him the impression that no one knew who they were. He would have to ask Sheriff Carter for more information when he got back.

After seeing them, Steve rode warily for hours, worried that they might double back and sneak up on him, but his journey remained uneventful. Wherever they were going, they’d decided that Steve wasn’t worth their time, and he didn’t dare try and confront them three to one while he still knew so little about them.

Back in Leadville, he slid down from his horse, taking her into the stables and seeing to it that she was thoroughly cared for after the ride he’d just put her through.

Peggy found him there. “I see you came back alive.”

“And alone,” Steve said, since she wasn’t going to.

“Batroc?”

“It’s done.”

Her eyes rested heavy on him, reading all the things he didn’t say. Giving his horse one last pat on the neck, he headed out of the stable.

“Steve,” she called after him, and he paused so she could catch up. She held out her hand to him. In the palm was a key, and a silver star that read Deputy Sheriff.

“Does this mean I passed?” he asked, the joke sounding half-hearted. He wasn’t certain that he wanted the badge, but he reached out and took it from her palm.

“You passed. Welcome back. Welcome home.” Peggy nodded once and it was settled. "Now go and see Tony. He has spent the last two days chewing my ear off for sending you to your death. I know he'll be glad to see you in one piece."

Steve smiled, giving her a casual salute. "Which way?"

"There." Peggy pointed. "The big, ostentatious one, of course.”

“Of course.”

Tony's house was at the edge of what passed for the town, the only building that was in stone rather than wood. The doors and windows were all wide open, but that seemed to be the norm for Leadville in July. The breeze was warm and the sky was sunny, so the town opened its doors to enjoy it.

“Hello?” Steve rapped his knuckles against the doorframe, but no one responded. Hearing voices from the back of the house, Steve wandered through, hoping he wasn’t intruding. “Tony?”

“Oh!” A red-haired woman rounded the corner and stopped short, looking up at him in surprise. “Hello.”

“I’m so sorry,” Steve said, feeling his cheeks heat again. “I’m Steve Rogers. I’m looking for Tony.”

“Oh.” Her eyes caught on the star pinned to his shirt, and then her lips pressed together in amusement. “You’re the deputy that Sheriff Carter sent to die, I take it?”

“I think that’s overstating things.”

“Since you’re not dead. This way. I’m Pepper, Tony’s Head of Industries.” She led him through to the back of the house, where one large room was set up as some kind of workshop. Tony was hunched over a workbench, a pair of goggles on his face as he worked.

“Pepper, I need the—“ Tony held out his hand, glancing up perfunctorily and then stopping as he realized it was Steve, not Pepper, in front of him. “Steve! You’re not dead.”

“I would really appreciate if everyone stopped being surprised by that.”

“I like your new jewelry,” Tony said, pulling off his goggles and nodding at the star.

“Thank you,” Steve said, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops and settling back on his heels as he looked around the room. “This is your workshop?”

“The one and only. Well, now the one and only, since I tore down the one in New York.”

“You blew it up,” Pepper corrected.

“I tore it down after there was some minor explosive damage.”

Feeling at ease again around Tony’s humor, Steve smiled to himself. “What is all of this?”

“Inventions, experiments, possibly volatile clutter… Here, let me show you this one.” Getting up from his bench, Tony started showing him some manner of device that caused an electric current to jump between two copper towers when activated, excitedly explaining what it was and how it worked. Completely out of his depth, Steve allowed Tony to tour him around the inventions, asking questions when he could manage to understand more than three words out of five.

“What’s this?” Steve asked, picking up a shining silver disk that seemed to have been forgotten at the back of a shelf.

“That? Oh. That’s vibranium. Well, to be precise, that’s the vibranium-molybdenum alloy.”

Steve turned it over, finding that it had been fitted with straps and designed to be a shield. Instantly drawn to it, he slid it onto his arm, finding that it fit him naturally. “It’s light.”

“That’d be the molybdenum. I can build shields with it. Well, one shield. I haven’t got much of the stuff. But, see, the problem is that I can’t get it to function for anything but shields. The vibranium is difficult to work with at best, and it has to be cast, not forged, because the damn stuff absorbs hammer blows. And… you’re not going to put that down, are you?” Tony folded his arms, watching Steve inspect the shield.

Reddening, Steve quickly set it back where he’d found it. “Sorry. It’s… fascinating.”

Tony picked the shield up again, considering it and then holding it out. “Do me a favor and keep it. It needs to be field-tested, and who better? You give me a full report on how it works out for you, and I’ll consider it even.”

Reverent, Steve took the shield, staring at it for a moment before trying to hand it back. “You said this was the rarest mineral on earth. This much of it must be enough to buy half of Colorado Territory. I can’t accept it.”

“No longer up for discussion,” Tony said, returning to his workbench and putting the goggles back on.

Steve put the shield back on his arm, squeezing the grip and smiling at how right it felt. “Thank you. For the opportunity. I’ll test it.”

Tony was either actively ignoring him or had just gotten too absorbed in his work to respond. Either way, Steve felt certain that he’d been dismissed. Nodding politely to Pepper and trying to keep his excited grinning about the shield under control, he left the workshop.

On his way back to the Sheriff’s office, Steve saw Thor and Bruce up on top of the inn, arguing over roof beams. He grinned, glad to see that the roof was genuinely in progress, and waved. The two of them waved back.

“I like your shield, Captain,” Thor called. Steve opened his mouth to correct him about the title, then thought better of it. If the locals were going to take after Tony calling him Cap and Captain as a fond nickname, Steve couldn’t find it in his heart to object.

“Thanks,” he said, squeezing the grip again and grinning with pride.

Peggy gave him a disbelieving look as he walked through the door. “Is that some kind of statement in regards to my making you carry a gun?”

“Not intentionally,” Steve said, bringing it over to show her. “Tony’s work. Isn’t it a beauty?”

Looking from the shield to him, Peggy cracked a smile. “It’s a beauty,” she agreed, eyes on Steve’s, which made his blush return. “You’re still required to carry a gun.”

“Sir,” Steve replied, with a nod of acknowledgement.

Setting the shield by the second desk, Steve leaned against it. “Can I ask what you know about the Russian Winter gang?”

Peggy sat up, watching his eyes carefully before answering. “Yes. They’re bandits. At least three in the gang, with at least one woman. They’ve been terrorizing the area for the past year. They call themselves Russian Winter, and they communicate between themselves in Russian. They’ve left those words as a calling card more than once, carved into empty vaults and saloon walls. No one understands their motives. Sometimes they seem to be interested in money, and are careful not to hurt hostages as long as they’re getting what they want. Other occasions they seem to be primarily interested in property damage. Occasionally they’ll just let a stagecoach go without taking anything, but we don’t have any idea why.”

Steve remembered the man in black who had said something to call off the woman when she hadn’t believed that Steve had been just a penniless soldier. He wondered what criteria the gang had for who they did and didn’t rob.

“Fairplay has been hit particularly hard, and they’re skilled at intercepting Western Union carriers and stagecoaches. Some reports say it’s the woman who’s in charge, others say it’s the man in black.” She paused, leafing through some of her papers and pulling out a copy of a wanted poster for the gang. “There’s a reward for their capture, but the bounty hunters who have gone after them have all been dumped back at the nearest town, sometimes dead, sometimes just bound and gagged. What else would you like to know?”

Steve took the poster, looking it over. “Are we going to stop them?”

She was silent, and Steve looked up from the poster. They sized each other up with a long glance. “There was one group of bounty hunters who banded together to go after them, after what had happened to former bounty hunters. Eight of them went after the gang. Eight against three, and the bounty hunters didn’t stand a chance. Leadville has you, me, Mayor Hill and Thor Odinson. Maybe Banner, if he’s angry enough, and Wilson’s good at breaking up fights. That’s six of us who are any good in a fight, and Leadville needs every one of us. I don’t count those as good odds, Deputy.”

He didn’t like that answer, but she was right. It would be foolhardy to pick a fight with such a dangerous gang, when their job was to stay and protect Leadville’s citizens. “Is anyone going to stop them?”

“Probably not. I’ve never heard of a group of more than eight bounty hunters who would be willing to band together, and no one cares about a string of small towns in Colorado Territory. If they come into town, we’ll fight, and you should be ready for that, but the most we can hope for is to drive them off.”

Nodding his understanding, Steve’s brows drew together suddenly as a thought occurred. “You said they’d carved the words Russian Winter into things. In English or Russian?”

Peggy looked startled, and she opened a drawer, flipping through some of the papers within. “English,” she confirmed. “I can’t be certain, but every report I’ve seen on the topic says ‘Russian Winter.’ If it was in Cyrillic, then most of the reports that have reached me would just say that it was foreign gibberish.”

“That’s interesting,” Steve said. “And unusual. For some reason it’s important to them for us to know—or at least to think—that they’re Russian.”

“Why?” Peggy asked, elbows resting against the desk as she leaned forward with interest. “Emperor Alexander—they call him Alexander the Liberator—is peacefully reforming Russia, and relations with the United States are civil to nonexistent. Why would three Russian immigrants have this level of combat skill, and why would they care that we know that they’re Russian?”

“I don’t know,” Steve said. “But I would like to find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding rifle accuracy, I was able to confirm that Annie Oakley used (among others) a 1873 Winchester rifle, and could shoot with incredible accuracy at 90 feet. Steve’s using a 1866 Winchester, and his described shots are all at 30-50 feet.


	4. Vive la Compagnie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before it became categorized as a legitimate disorder, PTSD symptoms were often considered symptoms of cowardice or weak will. Steve’s attitude toward his own symptoms reflects this.

Natasha arrived in town after Steve had been there for about a week.

Leadville was quiet, and it felt healing. He spent his days loitering around town, lifting heavy things for anyone who requested it. The little town of about fifty people was mostly peaceful, and folks got along. Most days they didn’t need a deputy, but Steve understood that he was there for the days when they did. Aside from some drunkenness and the occasional squabble over mining claims, Steve hadn’t done anything deputy-worthy since he’d earned his star.

By day, the town was dead quiet. Most of the residents got up early and hiked off to their prospects. Some worked for Tony, some worked private claims scattered around the region. Leadville had a wealth of minerals of all kinds, and most of the prospectors came back with full saddlebags of ore to be processed.

Steve kept busy by helping out how he could. He pitched in finishing the roof on the inn, and then started volunteering for every construction job that was in progress, learning as much as he could about carpentry so that he could make himself useful.

It felt good. Some days he sat on the porch of the sheriff’s office, watching the clouds roll by and wishing for trouble just so that something would _happen_ , but most days the solace was welcome. It was a respite from the last years of his life. 

The woman who walked out of the trees to the north was the last sort he expected to see.

She looked like she’d stepped out of a New York fashion plate. Gorgeously dressed in black silk, with a single red ruby pin at her waist, her long red hair was done up artfully. On foot and over unknown distance, she didn’t look even slightly travel-worn, and her smart black boots that buttoned up the side in a cascade of ebony were barely dusty. Whoever she was, she walked into town like she owned the place, and straight up to Steve.

He was getting used to assertive women in Leadville, and most of them outranked him, but this one was in a class of her own. Considering his face, her eyes flickered over his deputy’s star, getting a very slight smile. “Huh. I didn’t know we had a deputy.”

“Ma’am,” Steve said, stiffly.

“Natasha Roman,” she introduced herself flippantly, then stepped around him as if he was almost entirely beneath her notice. Her accent was upper-class New York to match her outfit, and he felt like a kid again, unable to talk to girls. Especially the well-dressed girls in neat curls and pristine lace.

Piqued, he followed her into the Sheriff’s office. Peggy glanced up at them both, then returned to her book.

“Anything new this week?” Natasha asked, taking a seat behind the second desk as if the spot belonged to her. Steve was pretty sure that it did.

“Batroc was caught in a shootout while fleeing justice,” Peggy said, without looking up from her book. “He’s been confirmed dead.”

“Huh,” Natasha said. “I can tell there’s more to that story.”

“We have a new and highly competent deputy, is the rest of that story,” Peggy replied.

Steve felt singularly awkward and out of place, while the two of them discussed his competence on a deed that still made him sick with guilt. He went back outside.

Outside, where there wasn’t anything for him to do. No enemies to fight, no wars to win. Just the maddening peace of the Leadville summer and his heart full of emotions that kept threatening to shatter forth and destroy every shred of his sanity and control.

He took his horse and rode down to Turquoise Lake, just a couple miles outside of town. 

The horse Tony had acquired for him in Denver was swift and reliable. He hadn’t asked for her back since they’d arrived in Leadville, and Steve hadn’t pursued the subject. He needed a horse. He liked this one.

It was even quieter by the lake. He thought he might pick a spot for a cabin and make his stay in Leadville permanent. A silent cabin on the edge of a lake, even more removed from society than Leadville. Where he could steep in his own misery.

Frustrated with his own frustration, he skipped rocks across the surface of the lake, watching them struggle over each crest in order to hit just one more, before drowning beneath the waves. Bucky had taught him how to skip stones across the Hudson. Even now, he couldn’t beat Bucky’s record.

_Well, no sign of trouble at the lake, Sheriff. No sign of trouble in town. No bandits, no claim-jumpers, no indians. All’s well, except for me._

When he rode back into town without finding whatever he’d sought at the lake, he saw Thor standing in the middle of the boulevard, looking east. Puzzled, Steve turned and looked in the same direction, scanning the horizon for anything out of place.

Anything like a man on a horse on top of a ridge, dressed all in black.

Steve felt a cold zing shoot down his spine, adrenaline and nervous anticipation pooling in his gut.

“Someone’s been watching us,” Thor said, conversationally.

“You’ve seen him before?”

“This week. Didn’t think anything of it the first time. Odd the second time, but not a threat.”

“Tell Sheriff Carter,” Steve said, wheeling his horse without thinking and pressing his heels to her side. His horse sped quickly into a gallop, taking him out of town and in the direction of the ridge.

She was still fresh today, and warmed up from their light walk to the lake, so it was mere minutes up the slope and through the trees to the ridge where he’d seen the stranger. A man in black, maybe the same one from the road with his hat pulled low and a pair of burning ice-blue eyes that made him think of Bucky. It might not be him. It could have been anyone. But that didn’t explain why Thor had seen him three times on a ridge outside of town, watching them. Planning a heist, most likely.

The ridge was empty. Steve rode up and down along it twice to look for any sign or trail, but he didn’t know the first thing about tracking and he didn’t see anything that was useful to him. Sliding off his horse, Steve slammed his fist into the bark of a tree, then let his head fall forward against it.

He wanted it to be him. The man in black from the gang with his blue eyes. He needed to see him again, so that he could reassure himself that it had only been an illusion. Some folly of his mourning heart. The man from the gang had such cold, merciless eyes, nothing like the familiar, warm, blue-gray hues that had always had a smile hidden in their depths so long ago. If he could just see the man again, look into his frosty eyes, then Steve could accept the truth and move on. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t--

_“Bucky.”_

~

It was near dark when Steve rode back into town. He felt like a coward and a fool, nothing like the man he’d been before the war. The courageous idiot who would never back down from a fight. He’d been scrawny before he’d finally hit puberty—so late that he was almost an adult before his body made him a man—and he’d shot up a foot and gained a hundred pounds in pure muscle. And yet he’d felt more like a man and a hero then than he did now.

Now he was just a broken-hearted husk.

The inn was lit and warm, as it usually was. With the completed roof, it had more reliably become a gathering place for the townsfolk. Steve slid in near the back and settled into a quiet spot in the corner, watching his new neighbors and friends with a fond smile that never quite reached his eyes.

It turned out that Sam Wilson was pretty decent on piano, and Darcy carried a tune better than Tony had led him to believe, even though her favorite song was [Roll On, Silver Moon](http://www.loc.gov/jukebox/recordings/detail/id/968/), and she was genuinely terrible at yodeling.

They really did have better whiskey in Leadville, thanks no doubt to Tony. Steve sipped at a glass while his shield leaned against his leg, enjoying the boisterous singing and the enthusiastic piano-playing. 

It was like Tony had said—they all fought in the war, in their different ways. It had touched everyone in this room, and Steve had plenty of reason to suspect that some of them had fought on different sides. But that wasn’t the sort of thing one asked, especially not in Colorado Territory. All of them had come here for a new start, where they could leave the war far behind.

Peggy came in later than the rest, seeking out Steve and taking a seat next to him. She also drank whiskey, but it wasn’t like they had much in the way of selection. Giving him only a brief smile in greeting, she kept her eyes on the entertainment. Natasha didn’t appear, but Steve supposed that he hadn’t expected her to. She seemed too respectable for a rowdy place like this.

“You always wear that owl pin,” Steve said, the words out of his mouth before he had time to wonder about them. “May I ask why?”

Her fingers drifted over it, a distant, fond smile on her lips. “My regiment gave it to me. When I first received my posting, they took to calling me Joan of Arc. Which was slightly problematic, being that I’m British. I could only get them to stop by convincing them to call me something else. The name we settled on was Athena, Goddess of War. Some days I felt more like a mascot than a Colonel, but my men followed me without question and that was what counted. Near the end of the war, they pitched in and gave me this.” Her smile grew wider but more distant, and she put her hand back in her lap. “They were good men.”

Steve nodded his understanding, not pressing the issue any farther. Sitting together in silence, they listened to the piano and the buzz of conversation around them.

As the night grew later, the ballads turned to drinking songs, and the whole room sang along. Even Mayor Hill joined in—it turned out that she sometimes got roaring drunk and swore like a sailor, and the town loved her for it.

He’d thought that he was over his earlier fit of cowardice and heartache, but when Sam started playing _Vive La Compagnie_ , he felt something clench in his chest.

_Let Bacchus to Venus libations pour forth,  
Vive la compagnie!_

That was Bucky’s favorite.

Bucky had grown up with skill on the piano, and gotten a job for a few years working in a pool hall. Sometimes Steve would go in early in the day, while the place was empty of patrons and the heat was pooling heavy in the shadows, and Bucky would be pouring out soaring renditions of Mozart and Bach along with the latest compositions of Louise Farrenc. The drunken crowd later in the evening would have none of those, but Bucky didn’t show the slightest hint of disappointment when they wanted to hear Oh! Susanna for the ninetieth time.

The hall owner had gotten used to Steve lurking around underfoot and gave him a job washing glasses. Steve always showed up early, when Bucky wasn’t really on shift and therefore was free to play whatever he liked. And he stayed long after his shift, watching the way that Bucky banged enthusiastically through the latest popular hits and the old drinking standards. Men and women alike lingered near the piano to flirt with him, though he was little more than a kid at the time, and Bucky grinned at them all, singing as loud and raucous as any of them.

_And let us make use of our time while it lasts,  
Vive la compagnie!_

Pushing his glass aside, Steve made his way out the door. The cheery strains of the song followed after him, French enthusiastically mangled by two dozen voices.

_Vive l’amour, vive l’amour, vive la compagnie!_

He had nowhere to go.

The sky above offered solace, stars as bright and clear as ever and scattered loosely with thin clouds, but not shelter. There was nothing that needed to be done in the Sheriff’s office, and his bed would be rattling with the song for another hour yet. He went to the stables, brushing down his horse with careful thoroughness in the dark even though he’d done it earlier by daylight.

_Vive la vive la vive l'amour,  
vive la vive la vive l’amour…_

He wondered if Bucky had ever sung that old chestnut to his platoon. Keeping spirits up while the war raged across the south. The image sprang all too easily to the imagination—Bucky, cocky and grinning, cap tilted recklessly to one side and more than one drink in his belly as he sang with that gorgeous rumbling voice of his. And if he grinned wide enough, maybe people wouldn’t see the bitterness and fear hidden behind it. Steve often didn’t, until he started watching Bucky when his friend wasn’t looking.

Letting his head rest against his horse’s flank, Steve felt his shoulders start to shake. His horse stood patient, remaining calm as ever, while Steve stood and wept quietly against her side.

_Vive l’amour, vive l’amour, vive la compagnie._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky’s penchant for piano-playing became a headcanon of mine after watching _Political Animals_ , where Sebastian Stan does all his own piano-playing (although the audio used in the post-production may not be his actual playing?). It is my secret hope that the skill might turn up someday in his portrayal of Bucky.  
> Viva la Compagnie, [History (scroll down or ctrl+f)](http://parlorsongs.com/issues/2009-3/thismonth/feature.php), [1844 Lyrics](http://parlorsongs.com/content/v/vivelacompagnie-lyr.php), [Listen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dyZc4d852xU)


	5. Deputy's Star

He went to Dr. Foster before he’d even realized he’d made a decision.

She was up to her elbows in rocks of various sorts, with chemistry equipment waiting along one wall. As usual, she looked as though she might have forgotten to eat or sleep in the past twenty-four hours. 

“Excuse me, Dr. Foster,” Steve said, keeping his distance so that he didn’t startle her and cause any inadvertent explosions.

“Oh, Deputy. Good morning.” Jane drew an arm across her brow, leaving smudges of dust on it. “What brings you in?”

“I need lead. As pure as I can get it.”

“Lead.” Giving him a puzzled look, she nodded. “Very well. How much?”

“Not much at all. Say enough to fill a teacup.”

She looked baffled and amused by his request, and opened up one of the little drawers that lined the wall, pulling out two flat disks of lead that fit neatly into her palm, and then held them out.

“How much do I owe you?” Steve asked, gratefully taking the lead. The quality looked excellent, although he trusted her judgement on that more than his own.

“Prove that you deserve your job next time bandits threaten Leadville, and we’ll call it good,” Jane said, folding her arms and looking up at him with a steady, analytical gaze.

He wasn’t yet sure that he deserved his job at all, but he thought that good quality lead might well have drained what few funds he had left, and he was grateful for the offer of a deal. “Thank you. Where might I get some quantity of vinegar?”

Her face lightened immediately with mirth. “Are you making _paint_?”

Blushing, he nodded once. “I was going to try.”

The very idea made him feel like an idiot. He’d never made his own paints before, but he understood the concept. Before the war, he’d wanted to be an artist. Pencils and charcoal were his mediums far more often than paint, but for this he felt he needed real paint. Or the nearest he could get to it.

“Ask Wilson for the vinegar. And let me know if you need help.”

“I will. Have you—do you know how to make Prussian blue?”

“I haven’t, but I’d be willing to try. It’s a fascinating chemical reaction. Blood, potash, and alum, right?”

Steve’s nose wrinkled at the ingredients, but he nodded. “And green vitriol. I expect I’ll need help.”

“You’ll have it, deputy. I’ve never made paint before.”

They shared a smile, and Steve nodded, willing to be optimistic. “Thank you, Dr. Foster.”

“Please, just call me Jane. I know Tony calls me ‘Doctor’, but I’m not, really.”

“I’m so sorry. Miss Foster. Jane.” Flustered, Steve rubbed his hand through his hair. “I must have misunderstood the situation.”

“You didn’t,” she said, blunt and honest. “I have the required level of education. But I don’t have the title.”

Steve could guess at the rest of that story. Most universities wouldn’t admit women at all, and those that would tended to shuttle them aside. Education was a novelty for strong minded rich men’s daughters, and treated as an indulgence only to be permitted until they were properly married and settled down. Whatever Jane’s past, it had landed her with an advanced education and no husband in the middle of Colorado territory.

“Did you earn the title?” Steve asked.

She looked startled and a little wary. “Yes. I did.”

“Would it offend you if I still preferred to call you Doctor?”

Smiling wryly, she studied his eyes and then turned away to continue her tasks. “If you must, Captain.”

“Thank you for the lead, Dr. Foster.”

Taking his leave of her, he had only started toward the inn when he saw a group of men on horses coming up from the south east. Frowning, he tucked the lead into a pocket and then moved his shield from his back to his arm. There was still time, so he ducked quickly into the Sheriff’s office to inform Peggy. “Sheriff, we might have a problem. Ten men, mounted. From the direction of Fairplay.”

She rose swiftly, unlocking the gun case. “Did you notice anything else?”

“They’re armed.”

“Everyone’s armed, Deputy.” Handing him a rifle, she strode past him out the door. Steve followed. They walked to the edge of town, standing there with rifles held loosely while they waited to find out their visitors’ business.

The group rode straight up to town, stopping about twenty feet off in order to parlay.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Peggy said, standing her ground but keeping her posture relatively casual. Steve stood a step behind her to the right, deferring to her authority. “What’s your business in Leadville?”

One of the men nudged his horse forward a step, taking the role of leader. “Friendly visit. Thought we might stop in for a drink.”

“Long way to go for a drink,” Peggy replied, calm and level.

“Aren’t you the little firecracker. What’s your name, darlin’?”

Peggy’s grip on the gun became a little less casual. “You can call me Sheriff Carter.”

“Sheriff Carter. Huh. Ain’t that adorable. So it’s true, Leadville’s a little town of Amazons who don’t know their place?”

“My place is Sheriff, and yours is getting the hell out of my town,” Peggy said, lifting the rifle to aim it at him.

“Gonna shoot me, while your big blond valkyrie there quivers in her boots?”

“I’ll shoot you if you don’t get. And he’ll shoot you if you ever show your face here again.”

“Now, that’s no way to treat guests. We just need some supplies. Some refreshment.”

“We’ve got neither for you,” Peggy said, not giving an inch of ground. “Get.”

The man’s eyes slid off of her, focusing on Steve instead. “You let your woman do all the talking for you, peach?”

Steve lifted his gun at that, willing to fight to defend the town if necessary. “She’s not my woman. She’s the sheriff. How about you show some respect?”

“How about she shows a little feminine modesty? Or no modesty, I’m fine with—“

Peggy put a bullet through his hat.

The guns of the other men came up instantly, a thicket of shining dark metal. They were outnumbered five to one, but there was no chance of Steve backing down from this fight.

“Want to test your aim, Deputy?” Peggy asked, voice cold and gun aimed at the leader.

“I don’t tolerate bullies, Sheriff,” Steve replied, shoulders tense. The only cover they had was his shield, which suddenly seemed so small.

A gun hammer cocked somewhere to his right. Steve didn’t look, just prayed that it was one of their own, and felt a wash of relief when he heard Mayor Hill’s voice. “I’d just love to put a bullet through one of those thick skulls. You going to pick a fight with the whole damn town, boys?”

“Here, now, we just came for a drink…”

“No one in town’s going to offer you boys a drink. Now clear out and don’t come back. I’m in no mood to be digging your graves.”

The leader muttered a slur that made Steve’s ears burn, but he turned around and the group slumped slowly away where they’d came. Peggy slowly lowered her weapon. Maria came over, standing alongside them and watching the men ride away.

“Still feeling useless, Captain?” Peggy asked.

“I never said—“

“No. But you thought it. And maybe now you’ll think different. Suppose we should post a watch for a night or two, in case they decide to try their luck while we’re sleeping.”

“What were they after, really?” Steve asked.

The women exchanged a look. Peggy turned around, heading back toward the Sheriff’s office. Steve went with her.

“Female companionship,” Peggy answered. “And I doubt they cared whether or not it was willing. They’re not the first men to come sniffing around the ‘Amazon’s town’, and they won’t be the last.”

Steve had spent the last week trying not to think about how the women around him needed protection and chaperones, trying to shift his own mindset to respect the independence that they so openly demanded here in Leadville. He realized now that had blinded him to the obvious fact that the nearby towns would have heard about the Sheriff and the Mayor, and would take objection to beautiful, young, unmarried women in a region that so desperately lacked them.

“You didn’t need a Deputy because of the quantity of the work,” Steve said, understanding for the first time. “You needed more able fighters you can trust to defend the town.”

“In particular, ones who won’t try to tell me that my place is anywhere other than a Sheriff’s office.”

“With respect, Sheriff, my mother always said that a woman’s place is anywhere she damn well wants to be.”

Peggy gave him a full-on grin for that.

~

He felt a little guilty painting on the shield, while it was still supposed to be just a loan that he was testing in the field for Tony. But some part of him needed to make a mark on the perfect, shining vibranium surface. He needed to stamp it as his, so that he would feel like this was real, and that he belonged here. So with just the white paint that he had made, he outlined and then painted a perfect five-pointed star, and surrounded it with a circle of white. A deputy’s star, though it didn’t stand out very well against the silvery surface. Once the blue was finished, he could outline the star with that, and he thought he might add red rings. The symbols of his union, and the country that he’d fought for.

A deputy’s star and the union. He held the shield across his lap while the paint dried, wondering if maybe he could start to feel like himself again if he built his identity toward that. American. Soldier. Deputy Sheriff.

Lost in thought, he let his eyes scan the north ridge again by habit and was startled to see the man in black on the ridge again. Watching him.

Heart leaping in his chest, Steve mounted swiftly, putting heels to his horse in order to chase after the stranger.

He didn’t have a chance of catching up to him. As soon as he entered the trees he lost sight of the man. That would give him plenty of time to disappear, just like last time.

But when Steve cleared the trees this time he found the stranger still there, watching Steve approach.

It was the man from the gang. He recognized those cold blue eyes, the same color as Bucky’s. His long, dark hair might have been the same shade as Bucky’s as well.

Stunned, Steve stopped his horse and stared at him.

The man didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t react, and they watched each other from across the ridge in silence. Steve didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even know what he wanted from the man. Only that his broken and mourning mind had begun to associate this stranger with Bucky. But chasing him was like chasing a ghost.

After a long stare between them, the stranger turned his horse and began to walk away.

“ _Wait!_ ” Steve called, even though he still wasn’t sure what he was going to say.

The man paused and glanced back at him.

“Who are you?”

Lifting his chin a little the man turned his head to look more fully at Steve. “The Winter Soldier.”

Absurdly, the first thing that went through Steve’s head was, _it’s July_.

His voice was nothing like Bucky’s. It was low and bitter, growled out of the back of his throat and bitten off. Bucky’s voice had been smooth and lilting. And yet it was still all Steve could think about. Every move the stranger made, every glance from those cold blue eyes screamed _Bucky_ , even though the two men had nothing in common but the color of their eyes and Steve hadn’t seen Bucky but once across a battlefield since they were teenagers.

“Why have you been watching us?” Steve asked, wishing that they were closer so that he could reach out and pull the stranger back. But he was well out of reach and if Steve pressed his horse closer he was certain the man would bolt.

The stranger—the Winter Soldier—didn’t reply.

“You have the eyes of someone I knew,” Steve said, the confession spilling from his mouth before he could stop it. “A friend of mine. He died in the war.”

“I’m not your friend, Deputy.”

“I know.” Of course he knew. And yet here he was, fixated on this man because of a ghostly resemblance to his dead friend. A man who was an outlaw; a thief, and probably a murderer. A man who hadn’t yet ridden away or pulled a gun on him. “When your gang stopped us on the road, you said something to Mother Russia to dissuade her. What did you say?”

“I said what he said. You were a penniless former soldier. Not worth the trouble.”

“How could you know that?”

“I still don’t know if you’re worth the trouble, Deputy,” the Winter Soldier said, guiding his horse forward again.

“What is? What is your gang after? Why show mercy sometimes and not others?”

Riding away, the Winter Soldier raised a hand over his shoulder to wave goodbye.

Steve knew that he should stop him. Draw a gun, capture him, take him into town for a trial. But he couldn’t.

“ _Bucky!_ ” he called, although the man had already vanished into the trees. Steve hung his head, feeling foolish and lost, and no less fixated on the stranger.

~

By day, Steve started clearing the spot near the lake where he always sat.

He bought an axe in town, chopping down the trees that were in his way and stacking them to the side. Within half a day, Thor came to help.

It turned out that Thor was a competent carpenter in addition to being a competent blacksmith and trapper. The two of them worked together naturally. Thor gave suggestions and showed how to do things, and Steve made decisions and did his best to memorize every detail.

He didn’t need much. Just a little one-room cabin with a loft and a porch from where he could see the town and the nearest mountain passes.

They heard word of a hit from the Russian Winter gang over in Idaho Springs, making off with a considerable amount of gold and vanishing back into the hills like the ghosts that they seemed to be, but another week passed peacefully in Leadville and Tony was nearly bouncing with cheer at the profit pouring out of the mine and the progress he was making with vibranium.

By night, Steve stayed up late, sitting on the roof of his new little cabin and watching the stars.

He didn’t think he was ever going to grow accustomed to how bright the sky was in Leadville.

Nights in Brooklyn had been alive with energy and humanity. Streetlamps, domestic quarrels, festivities, glamor… the nights were never quiet, especially not in the neighborhood where Steve had grown up. Nights in Brooklyn were like being submerged in a great ocean of life and shadow, with glowing windows and lanterns suspended in a pool of sleepless darkness.

Out at war, the nights had been thick and deep as velvet. The darkness always felt crushing then, heavy as it was with the breath of so many soldiers, and the stars were dim and muted in the swallowing darkness all around.

But here in Leadville, the sky stretched across the horizon, and the air was thin and bright. He’d never imagined that there could be so much sky. You could see storms coming from miles away, and the clear, dry air left visibility sharp until the earth curved enough to hide the mountains behind other mountains.

Even on moonless nights the world was painted with silver from the light of the stars, and he could count the trees on nearby ridges just from that bright, clear wash of light from the Milky Way.

Or, like tonight, he could see three forms moving through the trees. Forms that were too tall to be bears or elk.

Sitting up quickly, he stared at the ridge, straining his eyes to see. A trick of the light? Wind in the evergreens?

No, there it was again. At least two figures on horseback, and Steve felt certain that he knew who they were. The Russian Winter gang, that orbited around Leadville and raided all the towns nearby. He’d wondered why a million times, even wondered if any or all of them made their home base in Leadville and pretended to be merely miners disappearing off to their prospects in the hills.

He slipped reins over his horse’s head and leapt on bareback, riding swiftly back into town.

Leadville was silent, and he’d of course lost sight of the gang in the trees. Tying the horse out back of Wilson’s inn, Steve crept into town. He kept his shield down, knowing that bright white star would shine as a target in the dim light and wanting to stay unseen at least until he saw where they’d gone.

Soon enough he spotted the trio emerging from the trees to the West, on foot now for silence. They seemed to be heading straight for Tony’s house.

Darting around houses in order to get to Tony’s house before they did, Steve reached the corner of the house and spun into sight, shield up and gun at the ready. It reminded him of facing down the gang from Fairplay, and he wasn’t sure if these odds were better or worse. “Evening, folks. Late night for you.”

The archer’s bow came up, aimed at him, but the other two just stopped, watching him.

“The penniless soldier,” the woman said, accent heavy in her voice. “With a Sheriff’s star now?”

“Deputy Sheriff, thank you. What’s your business in Leadville?”

“Don’t shoot him,” the Winter Soldier told the archer, who looked startled but lowered his arrow.

Steve wondered if that statement had been for his benefit, or if the archer simply didn’t speak Russian. Either way, it was an interesting revelation.

The woman put hands on hips and demanded something of the Winter Soldier in Russian.

“I want to fight him,” the Winter Soldier said, stepping forward.

A brawl. That was unexpected. But an improvement upon a gunfight, so Steve was grateful. He dropped his shield to make things fair, the star shining against the pebbles and scrub grass. The rest of the gang likewise accepted this arrangement, standing back and folding their arms to watch.

Heart pounding in his throat, Steve brought his fists up. He’d gotten into countless fights as a kid, and been terrible at it.

Bucky had taught him to fight.

_“Keep your fists up. A good fight is more about defense than offense, especially at your size. You can’t afford to take a punch, so use your arms. Defend. Deflect. If you can get in a punch, do it, but don’t be stupid. Don’t let down your guard in order to do it.”_

_“I’m never gonna get a hit in, Buck. I never do.”_

_“Yeah, well, you’re too dumb to run away. So you’ve just gotta survive until I come rescue you.”_

Sometimes he had. More often, Steve had come home with a split lip and bruises and had to see that look of exasperation and worry on Bucky’s face, along with a half-buried glow of pride. So Bucky kept giving him lessons, and slowly Steve got better.

When he’d hit puberty it was like he finally grew into himself, but by then Bucky was gone. His balance improved, his reflexes sharpened, and his weight doubled. He got good at fighting in a hurry, and earned a reputation among the neighborhood for it. Steve Rogers was the one to ask if you needed someone to escort you home safe after dark. He got into fights over politics and honor, and when he came home now covered in bruises from chasing off a gang, no one was there to worry over him.

The Winter Soldier threw the first punch.

He was _fast._

Steve could barely keep up. The punches were a constant, brutal onslaught. The Winter Soldier surely couldn’t maintain this pace for long—no one could—but Steve doubted he ever needed to. No one could hold out against it.

Keeping his breath low and steady, Steve fought. Arms up. Defend, deflect, wait for an opening. They circled each other, throwing punches, and it was Steve who gave ground again and again.

If he could just hold out for a few minutes, he could learn enough of the Winter Soldier’s style and use it against him. He was efficient and ruthless, a better fighter than Steve had ever seen.

And he fought like Bucky.

The realization made him pause, and the Winter Soldier landed a hard punch to his gut. Stumbling back, Steve gasped for breath, lungs uncooperative after that hit.

He fought like Bucky, although Steve had never genuinely fought Bucky. Their scraps had always been lessons and practice, never anything serious. And this man fought far more brutally than Bucky ever could have. But everything about his style—the swift, efficient attacks, the absolute focus on finishing the fight and allowing for no distractions—it was all Bucky.

And Steve knew how to beat Bucky.

Once— _once_ —he had pulled it off. Bucky used his left arm to guard, and after he blocked a high punch he often left it up too high, leaving a spot open along his ribs. He was ticklish at that spot. But, more importantly, it knocked the wind right out of him.

Steve swung high, swung left, and then ducked, planting his feet and driving his fist into that spot with all the force he had in him. If he was wrong, this would leave him open and probably end the fight.

The Winter Soldier went down coughing. Steve launched himself at him, landing with his knees on the man’s shoulders to pin him down as he grabbed that black kerchief and yanked it down.

Bucky stared back at him. Older, with stubble covering his face, and still gasping for breath after the hit Steve had landed, but that face was unforgettable.

“Bucky.”

“Go boil your shirt, Rogers,” Bucky panted.

Something hard and metal slammed into the side of Steve’s head, and he went over, vision blurred and dazed. Bucky scrambled away from him.

“Buck—“ Steve said, head swimming. The woman dropped the shield by his side and it fell onto Steve’s thigh. She’d come up behind and hit him with it while he wasn’t looking.

“ _Buck_ —“ Steve repeated, trying to stagger to his feet and failing.

“Let’s go,” she said, pulling Bucky to his feet.

Steve’s head was throbbing, each beat of his heart sending a fresh rush of pain through it. He got up and took two dazed steps before he hit his knees. Again he struggled after them, getting only a few more steps before they reached the trees and vanished.

“Bucky,” Steve said, slumping to the side with his arm over his shield, consciousness slipping.


	6. Side Effects of Vibranium

“I think he’s coming around.”

“So that means he’s not dead, right?”

“Well, our first clue was probably the fact that he’s still breathing, but yes, that means he’s not dead.”

Steve’s head was pounding with every pulse of blood through his veins. He slitted his eyes open, and immediately winced in pain, closing them again. “I would still really appreciate if everyone stopped being surprised by my not being dead.”

“We’re all relieved that your sense of sarcasm is intact.” That was Tony’s voice. Steve tentatively tried opening his eyes again and saw Peggy, Maria and Bruce staring down with him, with Darcy and Tony hovering not far away.

“Where’s Bucky?”

Maria and Peggy exchanged a concerned look. Maria cleared her throat. “With all respect, Rogers, who the hell is Bucky?”

“He was here,” Steve said, trying to sit up. Peggy immediately pushed him back down, and Maria reinforced her by pinning his other shoulder to the bed he was lying on.

“Sure, just manhandle my patient,” Bruce said, moving back a step. “That’s fine.”

“The gang,” Steve tried again. His thoughts felt scrambled and murky, and the name _Bucky Bucky Bucky_ rattled around inside his skull with every beat of his heart. “Russian Winter. They were here. Did they take anything?”

The room went quiet as everyone exchanged glances to seek information. “No, Steve,” Peggy said, gently, as if she wasn’t sure of how reliable Steve’s grip on reality was at the moment. “No one saw anything, and we haven’t noticed anything missing.”

“They were here,” Steve insisted. “The one in black, he’s _Bucky_ , I have to… I have to…” He trailed off, not sure what the plan was. Get to Bucky. Make everything better.

“Steve, we found you behind Stark’s house, unconscious. You’ve got a lump the size of a goose egg on the side of your head. What do you remember?”

“Russian Winter was here,” Steve repeated, trying again to sit up. Maria’s grip on his shoulder tightened, and he went nowhere. “I fought one of them. The one with a black kerchief. I knew him.”

There was a tense silence in the room, and Steve felt his heart sink with the knowledge that they didn’t believe him.

“He has a concussion,” Bruce said. “He may not know what he’s talking about.”

“Well, _someone_ clobbered him upside the head,” Maria said, more sharply than necessary.

“Could everyone talk more quietly, please?” Steve asked, pressing a hand to his face as if that would help his aching head. “I’m dazed, but I’m not hallucinating. Russian Winter was here. I think they were headed for Tony’s workshop. But one of them knew me, and offered to brawl.”

“You don’t look like you were _brawling_ ,” Maria corrected him, then sighed and let go, folding her arms.

“What can we do for him?” Peggy asked.

“Rest,” Bruce said. “It’s a concussion, nothing else. He needs rest and sleep, for at least a few days. Maybe a few weeks. Until the symptoms abate. Try to keep him lying down as much as possible.”

“He can stay here,” Tony said. “It’s a spare room now anyway.”

Pepper smacked Tony’s shoulder. Steve wasn’t alert enough to understand what he’d just missed.

“I think we should post someone to keep an eye on him, to keep him from trying to get up,” Peggy decided, looking around the room.

“I’ll do it,” Darcy said. Everyone looked at her. “What? It’s not like Jane will suffer without my help.”

“Or even notice,” Tony said, clearing his throat to hide it.

“Fine,” Peggy decided. “Tony, you and Pepper keep an eye on him in case Darcy needs to be relieved. I’ll return in a few hours and take a shift.”

“I don’t need to be supervised, really,” Steve tried to argue. Everyone ignored him.

“Try to get some rest, Steve,” Peggy said, patting his shoulder. The others all wished him well and then filed out, leaving Steve alone with Darcy, who took a seat by the window.

“Shoulda got a book,” Darcy sighed. “Oh well. You gonna be good and sleep?”

“I feel like I’ve slept enough,” Steve said, at least glad that the crowd in the room had left. He sat up partway, peering toward the window. Everything seemed so _bright_. It was at least midday, but he didn’t trust his mental state enough to be more certain than that. “How long was I out?”

“No idea. Pepper just about tripped over you at dawn, and woke the town up. So at least a few hours.”

Steve sighed and laid back on the pillows, taking deep breaths to try to get his head to stop pounding.

When he woke up again, Peggy was sitting next to the bed, reading a book. She glanced over when he woke up. “How are you feeling?”

“My head hurts.”

“Any idea what you were hit with?”

“My shield.”

Peggy’s brows lifted. “I can see why that might hurt.”

Steve grunted, then sat up suddenly—too quickly, his head spun and he groaned at the pain. “My shield,” he repeated, wincing his eyes shut.

“It’s here, Steve. Truly, they didn’t take anything that we’ve noticed. Tony’s checked his workshop. You may have stopped them.”

“We both know that doesn’t make sense. They left me out cold. They could have taken anything. Whatever brought them into town, it wasn’t to knock me out.”

“Who is ‘Bucky’, Steve?”

Steve dropped back into the pillows, sighing. “We grew up together. His parents moved to Virginia. I thought he was dead. I was so sure he was dead.”

“You were hit pretty hard, Steve—“

“He was real. I was sure of it even before last night.” Stopping himself, Steve frowned. He hadn’t been sure of it before last night. He’d been obsessed. Convinced that the stranger in black was Bucky, even though he knew it made no sense. Peggy had good reason to be questioning his memory, and she didn’t even know about the prior obsession.

Her silence was sympathetic, and it made Steve feel insane.

“Am I allowed to eat? I’m just about ravenous.”

“Yes. I’ll get you something.” Peggy patted his shoulder as she rose, both comfort and a reminder to stay put. Steve sat up a little more, leaning against the headboard, but he stayed.

Peggy brought back some manner of stew, courtesy of Pepper, and Steve hungrily cleared the bowl.

“Better?” Peggy asked, taking the bowl and setting it aside.

“Yes. Thank you.” Steve tilted his head to look against the wall, thinking. “Sheriff Carter, I think you you should reconsider your decision to take me on as your deputy.”

“And why would I do that?”

He met her eyes, painful though it was to confess what he’d been going through. “The war made a coward of me, Sheriff. And I can no longer deny that mourning my friend has become an obsession for me. If I’m right, and it was Bucky I fought last night, then I don’t know if I’ll be able to help bring Russian Winter to justice. And if I’m wrong, and I’ve only imagined him, then I belong in an asylum and I’m not fit to serve.”

“You’re no coward, Rogers. I saw you willing to stand down ten men to defend this town. If you need to take time to mourn, then take the time. I can’t imagine a better deputy than you and I don’t intend to look for one.”

“And if I’m mad?”

“I don’t care if you are. We’re all damaged in some way, Rogers, and the war has left us all mourning and more than a little mad. Those of us who came this far out to the middle of nowhere are the ones who couldn’t deal with re-integrating into society. I’ve been called mad and unnatural more times than I care to count. None of us are fit to judge.”

She spoke with enough heat to make Steve wonder what had happened to make her this angry and bitter. It wasn’t his place to ask, but he felt grateful for her point of view and furious at anyone who would call this brilliant, competent Sheriff mad or unnatural. “Thank you, Sheriff.”

Nodding once, she gave him a little smile. “Take your time, Steve. Heal. Leadville needs you.”

~

The ringing in his ears stayed, and he still winced every time he moved, but after a day he was able to get up out of bed and function, and they allowed him to move back to his little room at the inn where Sam could check in on him regularly to make sure he hadn’t died in his sleep.

“I’m not going to die in my sleep,” Steve argued, with a sigh, when his door opened yet again to reveal Sam’s worried face.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Sam replied with such a calm, easy tone that it made Steve grin.

Out of his mind with boredom by the next day, Steve headed back to the Sheriff’s office. In the middle of the boulevard, he looked off to the north, the ridge that he’d found himself watching more often than not because it was where Bucky had stood and watched the town. Watched him.

Peggy wasn’t in the office, but Natasha was. Steve took a spot against the wall to chat with her, then almost immediately changed his mind and slid down to sit on the ground in front of Peggy’s desk.

“How’s your head, Rogers?” Natasha asked, glancing up from paperwork.

“Like a million dollars,” Steve replied, letting his head fall softly back against the wood of the desk. “All of them silver and tumbling around.”

Natasha smiled a little. Her sense of humor was even dryer than Steve’s, and he appreciated that. “I heard you said it was Russian Winter.”

“It was,” Steve confirmed, wondering just how unstable his believability was around town at the moment.

“What do you think they were after?”

“Don’t know. They’re not exactly a typical gang, even from what little I know of gangs out here. One of them was my friend.”

“You go around making friends with gang members, Rogers?”

A smile teased the edges of Steve’s lips. “Can’t say I make a habit of it. His name is Bucky Barnes, and he’s not…” Sighing, Steve pulled his brows together in frustration. He very clearly _was_ a criminal now, as much as Steve wanted to deny it. “He’s a good guy. “

“When did you know him?”

“We were kids. We grew up together in Brooklyn. I was a scrawny, unhealthy kid, and he looked out for me. No matter what happened, he was by my side.” It hurt to remember it, but all the same, all he could think was that Bucky had known him. Bucky had kept his companions from shooting Steve on repeated occasions.

“And then?”

“His parents died. He went to live with his grandparents in the south. We wrote back and forth for years, until the war. I wrote a few more letters from the front, but never heard a reply. I assumed…” 

Steve paused. It hurt so much to relate his past, and here he was telling the woman he knew the least about in the whole town. But it was easier to confess to a stranger than his friends. Natasha wouldn’t be burdened by his story. She wouldn’t pity him. She would just… listen. “I assumed that he’d been drafted into the war. Maybe he volunteered. I don’t know. And he knew that I’d volunteered. I always assumed that he couldn’t deal with knowing we were on opposite sides of the war. It was easier to assume that than any of the other possibilities that crossed my mind. So I fought, and I tried not to think about him.”

Natasha paused at her paperwork, her pen laid down as she listened.

“Is it stupid for me to still be so hung up on him? He was my best friend. He was the center of my world. When he went south, it was like half my organs were missing but somehow I was still standing. Somehow I kept living my life.

“The last time I saw him was across a battlefield. My platoon was crouched down low, behind good cover. No one should have been able to make that shot. I remember seeing Davies slump forward, blood spraying out from his head and taking most of his face with it. Then Ingman. His eyes met mine for an instant, still reacting to Davies’ death, and then his eyes went blank.

“I should have ducked. If I’d had any sense I would have understood in that moment that I was about to die, and I would have ducked. But instead, like an idiot, I turned and looked. And there he was. Far across the field, at the edge of a copse, a rifle in his hands and pointed at me. He knew me. He didn’t take the shot. I don’t know how long we stared at each other across the battlefield like that. An instant, an hour. And a… a…”

Steve’s breath escaped him in a shudder and he shut his eyes. “A cannonball hit the copse. I remember leaping up, yelling for him, and the men around me pulling me down, hauling me back. We retreated from that battle and I had to be dragged from the field, babbling his name like I’d gone mad.”

Still absolutely silent, Natasha listened. Steve couldn’t bear to look at her.

“I assumed it had killed him. I couldn’t be sure, and that was what was worst. I just had to … assume he had died.

“After the war, I worked for the reconstruction for a year, but when my term was up I left. Didn’t even take the train to Brooklyn with the rest. I just shed my uniform and took off on foot across Virginia, until I found the town and his grandparents’ farm.

“The place was…” Steve swallowed, because this part of the story hurt even worse than the moment when he’d thought he’d seen Bucky die. “Bloody. I don’t know what happened. I don’t think I want to know. But there were so many versions of that story across the South. Families who refused quarter to Union soldiers. Families who sheltered runaway slaves. Looting, murder, rape. The war hurt, but when I wake up screaming at night, it’s the things I saw after the war that are burned into my mind.

“The bodies had been dragged out of the house and buried, but the blood was still there. I inquired in town, but they’d seen no sign of Bucky. He hadn’t come through. He wasn’t the one who buried them. I’d scoured casualty reports for him, but that meant nothing. Near the end of the war, the records were incomplete at best on the Confederate side. He wasn’t registered among the survivors, and those lists were more accurate.

“And that was it. I left a letter for him with the postmaster, in case he still came back, but I didn’t really expect that to happen. Not after a year. So I went back to Brooklyn to try and forget him, and then I came here. Only to find him in the place I least expected in the world.”

Steve laughed, humorless and hurting, dropping his head down to stare at his hands.

“It’s not my place to say, Rogers, but he’s not your childhood friend anymore. You might have to let him go.”

“That’s never going to happen,” Steve said, shaking his head and then wincing. “If he’s hurting, if he needs me, if there’s anything in this world I can do, I belong at his side.”

“What are you planning to do?” Natasha asked, voice as level and calm as ever.

“I’m going after him.”

“Hoping for a matching goose egg on the other side of your skull?”

Steve glanced up, grin lopsided. “If that’s what it takes.”

Her lips tilted in reply for an instant before she hid the emotion away. “In all seriousness, Rogers. You’re the deputy. He’s an outlaw. What are you going to do if you catch up with him? Betray your duty or your friend?”

“With respect, Mrs. Roman, don’t you believe that people can be redeemed?”

Gaze lingering heavily on his face, she took a long time over her answer. “Roman is my name, not my husband’s.”

Steve didn’t have any idea what to do with that information. He flushed red, jaw working uselessly as he tried to come up with a polite response. “Mistress Roman,” he managed at last.

Her lips pressed together to contain a smile. “Not ‘Natasha’?”

“Ma’am, I am trying my damnedest in this town, but referring to married female acquaintances who _don’t_ outrank me by their Christian names is not yet within my capabilities.”

Her smile escaped across her mouth before she shook it away again. “What if your friend doesn’t want to be redeemed, Deputy?”

“That’s his choice to make. But I’m damn well going to see that he gets the opportunity to make it.”

~

When Steve felt stable enough to ride his horse without falling off, he went to Peggy.

“I’m going after the Russian Winter gang.”

Peggy glanced over, looking him up and down and then returning her attention to her work. “I can’t say I’m surprised, but you’re not exactly in fighting condition, Deputy.”

“I don’t intend to fight them, Sheriff.”

She sighed, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms. “You understand what a terrible idea this is, don’t you, Rogers?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Right. I expect you to maintain your record up to this point of not dying, Captain.”

Steve saluted. “Yes, Colonel.”

Getting up, she came around her desk and offered her hand. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Steve. I truly do.”

“Thank you,” he said, taking her hand and clasping it. She had become a dear friend in his time here, and he was grateful for that. “Peggy.”


	7. Rope

He headed north.

It was the one thing of which he felt fairly confident, despite his complete lack of a plan. The gang tended to appear over the ridge to the north east of town, and by their direction of travel the few other times he’d seen them, he suspected they had a camp five to ten miles north to north east. His evidence was scanty, and he already knew he was on a wild goose chase, but this was about Bucky. He had to try.

His head kept up a steady throbbing in time with the footsteps of his horse and the blood in his veins. Keeping his eyes closed when he could, Steve often had to stop and take deep breaths to fight down the rising nausea. He hadn’t recovered enough to be doing this, but he couldn’t endure being stuck in bed any longer.

Once he was a few miles north of town, he kept his eyes open for any sign of life. He detoured twice to investigate small mining claims that had a little hut or cabin next to them, but in both cases it was clear that they weren’t housing anything but a solitary miner.

About seven miles north of town, as he’d hoped, the Russian Winter gang found him.

They dropped out of the trees around him, which made him suspect that they’d seen him coming some distance away and had chosen this spot for their ambush. It was hard to mind even when all three aimed their weapons at him. Being ambushed saved him hours of searching.

“So tell us, Deputy,” Bucky said, tugging his kerchief down to hang around his throat. “What kind of an idiot rides out alone to face one of the most feared gangs in the West?”

“Don’t you remember my penchant for picking fights I couldn’t finish?”

The Bucky he knew would have laughed and replied with some easy joke. This one just stared at him, merciless.

“I’m here for you, Buck. I thought you might come with me. Willingly.”

“To a prison cell and a rope? I don’t think so. I’d like you to get off your horse now, Deputy. Keeping your hands where we can see them.”

Steve’s stomach lurched at what Bucky meant by _a rope_. The image of Bucky’s body dangling broken-necked from the gallows flashed through his mind, surging into the throbbing pain already waiting there.

Keeping his movements slow, he slid down off his horse and put his hands up. The woman came forward, taking his horse’s reins. She glanced at him, and for a moment Steve was certain he knew her, but she turned away before he could place whose eyes those were.

“I don’t want to kill him, but if he resists you can put an arrow through something non-vital,” Bucky said to the archer, coming over to Steve and wrenching his arms behind his back as he started to tie his wrists.

Remaining pliant, Steve let his friend bind him. He watched the archer closely, studying what he could see of his face, but nothing seemed familiar about it. “You’re my best friend, Bucky. I’m not going to give up on you.”

Bucky finished tying his wrists and gave him a shove, which made Steve stumble. “We’re not friends, you idiot.”

Catching his balance and trying to ignore his pounding head, Steve focused on his friend. “You didn’t kill me across the field that day, and you’ve kept your gang from killing me time and again.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. Shut up before I gag you.” Glaring at him, Bucky took only an instant to make a decision before looking back to his companions. “I’m going to take him back to town. Hawkeye, would you be willing to bring my horse?”

The archer nodded, putting his arrow back in its quiver and disappearing into the forest along with the woman.

Steve leaned against a tree and stared at Bucky, headache subsiding a little. “Why become this person, Bucky? You’re stealing and murdering now? I don’t understand.”

“You wouldn’t,” Bucky said, bitter. He kept his distance, and looked at the forest floor rather than at Steve. “You were such an idealistic kid, and now a Sheriff’s deputy. Symbol of justice and victory. Aren’t you just so damn noble?”

“You used to be proud of my idealism.”

“And now I find it nauseating.”

“Why?”

“How can you ask me that? Did you go through the war blindfolded, Rogers?”

“I saw your grandparents’ home.”

Bucky’s face went pale with shock, eyes lifting immediately to Steve’s.

Holding his gaze, Steve gentled his tone, answering the question in Bucky’s expression. “The bloodstains were still there when I passed through. You have my humblest condolences.”

“Then how can you judge me for what I’ve become?”

A twig snapped nearby, making them both fall silent, and the archer walked up, handing over Steve’s horse and Bucky’s. Steve thought he’d likely snapped the twig on purpose. The polite respect for their private conversation seemed odd from an outlaw.

Bucky held the reins, watching his companion walk away in silence.

“You can be anything out here,” Steve said. Now that he’d seen Leadville, he believed that.

“Even now? Your Sheriff would hang me and bask in the glory of destroying my gang.” Letting out his breath with a frustrated sigh, Bucky led his horse over. “Come on, then. I’m taking you back to town.”

“Like this?” Steve asked, but he didn’t fight as Bucky set a hand against his back and helped him up onto the horse.

“Don’t fall off,” Bucky advised, putting Steve’s horse on a lead rope and then mounting up, turning both horses in the direction of town.

Balancing atop a horse was tricky without his hands, but Steve kept his feet securely in his stirrups and knees tight against his horse’s sides. “I feel like I’m a kid again, with you dragging me home for a scolding.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Steve bit his lip, brows pulling together. They’d been apart for as long as they’d ever been together. It was childish of him to think that they could just pick up as though nothing was changed. As if the void of ten years and a war that had broken them both could ever be bridged.

“I’m not the same kid I was, either,” Steve said, into the quiet afternoon. Bucky wouldn’t answer, but maybe he would listen. “I barely sleep anymore from the nightmares. Some nights I wake up hollering. It’s why I live out of shouting distance from town. I can barely function around people. Even in Leadville, with the people I care about, it feels stifling. I’m not a symbol of justice and victory, Bucky. I’m a heartbroken coward who misses his friend.”

“Seems to me you’ve got a whole host of new friends.”

“They can’t replace you.”

“I can’t replace me, Rogers. You want your friend back? That stupid kid who ran around Brooklyn boasting and flirting? I’m not him. I’m never going to be him again. Give it up.”

“What are you doing with the money?”

He was watching closely, and saw that Bucky’s spine straightened at the question. Pausing a moment too long, Bucky cleared his throat. “Same as any other gang. Whores and liquor.”

“Liar.” Steve was certain of it, but he didn’t know why Bucky found the topic worth lying about. “Why pick the targets you do, and why let some people go?”

“Is this my trial, Deputy?”

“It’s a conversation with my friend,” Steve said sharply.

“I’m not your friend, and I don’t feel inclined to answer that.”

“You know, the reports about your gang all say that the three of you go out of your way to avoid hurting hostages or bystanders. Even the bounty hunters who have gone after you have mostly been returned to town with no damage but their pride. So whose idea is it that your gang won’t hurt innocents and tries to avoid killing anyone unnecessarily?”

“We’ve seen enough dead men, Rogers. The three of us share a dislike of washing blood from our hands.”

“Do they look out for you?”

Bucky looked over at him, confused. “What?”

“The other two. Are they your friends?”

“Yes.” Frowning, Bucky turned his face away.

“You have my word that I won’t let them be harmed.”

Bucky huffed, disbelieving. “Do you have any concept of what a deputy’s job involves?”

“Yes.”

“They’d hang the three of us.”

“I won’t let that happen.”

“You damned idealist. You can’t create happy endings just by wanting them, Rogers.”

“That’s not going to stop me trying. Leadville is a place for second chances. You could belong there, if you wanted.”

“I don’t.”

Steve didn’t know what else to say, so he fell silent, letting Bucky take him back to town. The sun was low on the horizon when Bucky left him on the road between Leadville and the Climax mine.

“Bucky!” Steve called after him, watching his friend’s retreating back.

Bucky hesitated at the name, glancing back to see what he wanted.

Heart aching, Steve just stared at him, terrified of losing him yet again. His throat felt tight, but he had to say something. “I miss you.”

Unresponsive, Bucky turned and rode away.

And then Steve was alone at sunset on the trail to Leadville, exhausted and barely able to stay on his horse even without the difficulty of having his arms tied behind his back. He couldn’t quite decide whether or not to pray for rescue, since rescue meant facing the humiliation of his predicament. Sooner or later someone would untie him. All he could do was pray that it wouldn’t be Peggy or Tony who found him like this.

The sky was darkening quickly as Steve made his way back to town. Steering his horse at all was difficult, since it involved pressing his heel into one side of his very confused horse until she turned and then squeezing his heels together to get her to move forward, while praying she wouldn’t get it into her head to move at anything faster than a slow walk.

Dr. Banner stopped as he happened upon the tied-up deputy, looking at Steve as though he wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing. “Got yourself into some trouble, Deputy?”

“You could say that.” Steve sighed, hanging his head. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to untie me then never speak of this again?”

“I’ll only point out that I did advise bed rest through at least the end of this week,” Bruce said, swinging down off his horse and coming over to catch Steve’s reins.

“At the moment I’m wishing powerfully that I’d had the sense to comply,” Steve said, grateful to feel the ropes fall away. Balance restored, Steve rubbed at his wrists, trying to return sensation to them. “Thank you, Dr. Banner. Sincerely.”

“I can’t say I haven’t found myself in weirder situations,” Bruce said. “Although one does wonder how you got _on_ the horse.”

“Same man who tied my hands.”

“Polite of him to return you in one piece.”

“We have a complicated relationship.”

Steve went to see Peggy once he was back in town, reporting what had happened in simple, honest terms. The concern and disappointment in her eyes hurt, but he couldn’t fault her for it.

Especially when they both knew he wasn’t ready to give up.

~

“Tony, I need a favor.”

“Yes, you may paint my armor suit for me. I was thinking red and gold.”

Instantly puzzled but amused, which felt like a default state around Tony, Steve shook his head. “This is different. And will require secrecy.”

Tony pushed his work aside and leaned back in his chair, interested. “Secrecy from whom?”

“Everyone, for the time being. I have a plan to catch the Russian Winter gang. I need your help.”

“Because your last two encounters with them went so well?”

“One of them is my friend.”

“I question your taste in friends, Rogers.”

Steve smiled slightly. “You’re among them.”

Tony grinned at him, shaking his head tolerantly. “Proof of your questionable taste. Now, what’s this plan of yours?”

~

They set a trap.

Tony spent the week worrying to anyone who would listen about the expensive shipment he was planning on sending from the mine to Denver with all the recent outlaw trouble, while Steve kept his head down and focused on his duties. He hoped that if the gang did have a contact in Leadville, word would reach them about the shipment. The Russian Winter gang liked valuable targets with few victims, so Steve set up a situation that would qualify.

While he waited, he helped out around town and then sat on his porch every evening watching the ridge in hopes that Bucky would appear. There was no word of the gang’s activity, but Steve’s thoughts wandered to them constantly. He wouldn’t give up. If this didn’t work, he would find something else.

When the week was out, Steve rode to the mine and climbed into a wagon under tarpaulin along with last-minute recruits Thor and Sam. And then it was just a matter of waiting again as the wagon moved out with its fictitious load of valuable mineral cargo.

He felt secure in his choice of Sam and Thor for allies, even despite the lingering suspicion that someone in the town was connected to the gang. The three of them lay silently under the cloth, guns ready.

It was not long at all before the wagon stopped, and Steve heard a woman’s voice giving orders to the wagon driver. Sam and Thor watched him, waiting for their signal, and Steve waited until he heard the gang approach before the three of them leapt out into the fight.

“It’s a trap, go!” the woman called, but Steve wasn’t paying attention to her. His focus was on Bucky, who happened to be nearer along the side of the wagon.

Launching himself out of the wagon, Steve grabbed the horse’s reins, pulling it aside. Bucky aimed a gun at him from inches away. “I will damn well shoot you, Rogers.”

Steve met his eyes, holding his gaze with faithful determination. “You won’t.”

Frustration flitted over Bucky’s expression, but Steve knew he was right. Bucky had already gone out of his way to prevent Steve being hurt time and again. Instead, Bucky kicked him.

Steve caught his leg and yanked, hauling him off the horse. The two of them went down in a tangle, but it was Bucky who hit the ground hard and Steve landed atop him, pinning him down.

Angry and trapped, Bucky glared up at him. “You got heavier, Rogers.”

“You grew out your hair,” Steve countered lamely.

“The other two are gone,” Thor said, coming up alongside them. “Do you want us to go after them?”

“Let them go. This is the one I wanted.”

“To hang,” Bucky snapped.

“Don’t,” Steve said. “Just don’t.”

~

Bucky paced in his cell like a caught tiger while Peggy and Steve watched.

“Well, you’ve done the impossible and caught one of the members of Russian Winter, although I don’t know what you intend to do next,” Peggy said, giving Steve an unreadable glance.

“I don’t know. Talk to him.”

“And if the rest of the gang turns up wanting him back?”

“Hope that talking to him has gotten me somewhere.”

She sighed, frustrated. These days Steve felt like everyone was frustrated with him. “I’m stymied about what to do with you, Rogers. You’re very effective, and yet you keep providing such unexpected results.”

“If you need me to surrender my badge, Sheriff, I will understand.”

The length of her pause told him that she was seriously considering it. “No. I think you’re doing the right thing. You may have brought a war into my town that I didn’t want to have to fight, but you’re doing it to redeem a man and dissolve a gang. It’s honorable of you. Unbelievably stupid, but honorable. If I were in your position, and that was my oldest friend, I’d like to think that I’d have done the same.”

Stunned, Steve blinked at her. “That… I’m honored that you’d say that.”

“Besides, part of me thinks that I’ve been a coward to do nothing while Russian Winter terrorized the area. It’s time we had an end to it.”

In the cell, Bucky stood up at that statement, jaw set and aggressive. Reacting to the hostility Peggy’s gaze immediately snapped back to him and the two of them stared each other down.

“Sheriff,” Steve said, gently interrupting this stand-off when he realized why Bucky had taken offense. “They’re his friends.”

Peggy re-focused her attention on Steve. A moment later, so did Bucky.

Letting out a breath that was almost a laugh, Peggy shook her head. “Does everything come down to friendship and honor with you, Deputy?”

Smiling sadly, Steve watched her. He was grateful for the measure of forgiveness and understanding she’d offered. “No,” he said, honestly. “I’m a soldier, Colonel, and wars are more complicated things than just friendship and honor. But those are the two things I value most in the world, and I’m not giving them up without a fight.”

Taking a resigned breath, Peggy nodded. “Maybe if we’re all fortunate, we can avoid that. Talk to him. I’m going to see to the town’s defenses.”

Meager though those were. Steve watched her go, then pulled over a chair so that he could sit and talk to Bucky.

Bucky remained standing, staring coldly at him.

“How do you feel about resolving this without a fight?” Steve asked, willing to take as much time as he needed for this conversation.

“I have no reason to bargain with you.”

“Your gang is outnumbered. It’s just the three of you, isn’t it? How are the two of them supposed to go through the number of fighters we have between you and them? I think you’d feel guilty if either of them were hurt.”

Bucky curled his lip in a sneer. “I think that next time one of them aims a weapon at you I’m going to ask them to take the shot.”

“Are they your friends?”

Gaze hard, Bucky stayed silent.

“Are you the leader, or is she?”

Bucky laughed coldly. “We never needed a leader. We are a unit. This outcome has already been discussed, and the resolution is in place.”

“You thought I’d capture you?”

Bucky took a sharp intake of breath, like he was about to contradict Steve, and then thought better of it and shut his mouth.

“You know what I think?” Steve asked, leaning forward in his chair.

“You’re going to tell me anyway.”

“I think you’re hurting and bitter, lashing out against a world that betrayed you.”

“Tell us more, O wise one,” Bucky said, viciously sarcastic. He slid down to sit on the floor of his cell, leaning back against the wall and glaring at Steve.

“But I know that somewhere in there is still the same Bucky that I knew. A man who didn’t like to see innocent people suffer. A man who was endlessly loyal to the weak, scrawny idiot who adored him.”

“I still haven’t heard you explain how you think your plan is going to end in anything other than a rope around my neck.”

“No one’s going to hang, Bucky. Not you, and not your friends. You can tell them to stand down. No one has to get hurt. And I think you will, because you don’t want to risk my death, or theirs.”

Bucky smirked cruelly. “You really are an idiot, Rogers.”

~

Natasha came in the next morning, showing surprise when she saw that they had a prisoner. “Who’s this?”

“One of the members of the Russian Winter gang, and a childhood friend of mine,” Steve said. Bucky hadn’t been inclined to conversation, but Steve wasn’t going to leave him by himself.

“Huh. Okay. I’ll get the paperwork to process him.”

“Delay it,” Steve said.

Already opening a drawer in her desk, Natasha stopped and gave him a look. “Really, Rogers? You of all people are suggesting violation of a man’s Sixth Amendment rights?”

“The gang’s going to come for him,” Steve explained, returning his gaze to Bucky. “I think with the probability of militia action against our township, and under the supervision of a Captain, a Colonel and a Major General of the United States Armed Forces, the trial can reasonably be delayed a few days until after resolution of expected conflict.”

Natasha didn’t answer, but Steve heard the drawer shut. A few seconds later, he heard another drawer open. He glanced over to see her pouring a couple of glasses of whiskey. When she brought one over and held it out, he took it.

“Militia action?”

“It’s just the two of them, without Bucky, but they seem to have quite the reputation.”

“This is Bucky?”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” Steve replied.

“Do you always talk about him like he’s not here?”

Steve set his jaw, then knocked back half the whiskey at a gulp. He didn’t like that question. “Only when he refuses to talk or negotiate. But please. Bucky, this is Mistress Natasha Roman, our legal affairs officer. Mistress Roman, this is Sargent James Buchanan Barnes, formerly of the Confederate State Army.”

Bucky just stared at the two of them, eyes blank and merciless.

Natasha swirled her whiskey in her glass. “How worried should we be about this gang?”

“I’m not sure. They’re anywhere from being unwilling to kill unless provoked to being the most dangerous gang in the West. I don’t think Bucky will let things come to hostilities because he doesn’t want to see me or them hurt, but no one—including Bucky—seems to agree with me.”

Natasha sipped at her whiskey without comment.

Steve sighed, taking another drink. “You any good with a gun, Mistress Roman?”

“Decent.”

Steve’s head felt heavy. A flare-up from the concussion, he supposed. Wincing, he finished the glass. Maybe alcohol would help take the edge off.

“What if they don’t come for him?”

“We’ll give it three days. And then we’ll figure something else out.”

“They’ll come for me,” Bucky said, rising to his feet.

Steve peered at him, finding it odd that Bucky found the inclination to stand up and respond _now_ of all times. “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about cooperating.”

“Not in the least. And you’re still a fool, Rogers.”

He was missing something. Something important. Steve frowned, starting to feel dizzy. Sleepy.

“Not looking so well there, Deputy,” Bucky said.

Steve felt his blood run cold with horror. “No.” He looked to Natasha, who was setting down her barely-touched glass on her desk and moving to unlock the cell.

“Terribly sorry about this, Deputy,” Natasha said.

Trying to stand, Steve wobbled and slid to his knees. Bucky walked out of the cell, bending down next to him and tilting Steve’s chin up. “You stupid punk. You were right. I wouldn’t risk their deaths. Or yours.”

“Bucky,” Steve said, world blurring around him as he tried to reach out for his friend.


	8. The Song of Leadville

Whatever Natasha had put in his drink, it didn’t last long, and it wasn’t deadly.

Steve woke up to Peggy patting his face. “Steve? Steve. How do you keep getting yourself into these situations?”

Groaning, Steve pushed himself into a sitting position. He was still on the floor of the Sheriff’s office. The cell door was hanging open, and his empty glass was still lying abandoned nearby. Not a dream, then.

“Steve! Are you hurt? What happened?”

Focusing on her face, Steve smiled. Bucky was gone but that no longer felt like the same gut-ache that it had a day before. He knew where to find Bucky. “I suppose I have good news and bad news, Sheriff.”

“You’re still not dead. That remains encouraging.”

His head didn’t hurt, which was a good sign, but he felt deeply groggy. “Mistress Roman betrayed us. She’s in the gang. She was always in the gang. I thought she looked familiar, but I didn’t put it together.”

“Natasha?” Peggy sighed, settling down to sit on the floor with him. “That’s disappointing. She did excellent work.”

“She must have been using her connections with us to feed information to her counterparts in the gang. The thick Russian accent she used in the gang was a disguise. And—Bucky said something that makes me think this was always one of their back-up plans. If one of them was ever captured, Natasha could use her cover to get them out.”

Peggy lifted her brows at that information, letting her breath out slowly. “I think I need a drink.”

“Don’t touch the whiskey. I think she put an opiate in it.”

“I see.” Peggy pressed her fingertips to the bridge of her nose. “Was there good news other than you not being dead?”

“I’m reasonably certain that there’s no longer any threat of a shoot-out with the gang.”

“That is good news.”

Steve got to his feet, holding out his hand to her to assist her up. “I’m going after them, Sheriff.”

“And here I’d started hoping that you hadn’t taken a blow to the head this time.”

“With respect, Sheriff, I’m going to bring your legal officer back to you. And I’d like to properly introduce you to my best friend, Sargent Barnes.”

“Every encounter you’ve had with them has ended poorly, Rogers. You can’t keep doing this.”

Giving her a slight smile, Steve offered his hand to shake. “This will be the last time, Sheriff. This time I plan to bring them home. I think it means something that Natasha had a plan in place to get her people out of Leadville without anyone getting hurt. She has a place here, and I’m willing to gamble that some part of her wants to keep it.”

Confused but tolerant, Peggy took his hand. “You’re the craziest excuse for a deputy I’ve ever heard of, Rogers. But somehow you make me want to hope for the best in things. Go get them. Don’t die.”

Steve grinned wide, feeling light-headed with hope, determination, and residual opium. “Thank you, Sheriff Carter.”

~

The sun was still high in the sky as he set out.

This time he could move faster, knowing where he was headed. He put his heels to his horse to urge her forward, pausing only once on the ridge north of town.

Leadville spread out in the valley, already almost half again the size that it had been when he’d arrived mere weeks ago. The broad boulevard looked slightly more like a main street now, with its little cluster of houses and business, and the houses that spread out farther from the center of town. His own little cabin sat peacefully by the side of the lake which reflected the impossible blue depths of the midday sky.

Smiling at it, he looked north again, to where his best friend was waiting to be brought home.

When he reached the spot where the gang had stopped him before, he paused, waiting for them to drop down from the trees around him. But they didn’t. The forest was quiet, until he heard the light, echoing laugh of a woman, happy and oblivious.

Intrigued, he rode forward, hearing voices through the trees. Stopping to dismount, he tied his horse and continued on foot, moving through the forest quietly as he approached the sounds of life.

“Stop hogging the vodka.” That sounded like Natasha’s voice, but it was an accent he hadn’t heard before. Somewhere between the Russian and the New York accent, imperfectly muddled through the course of life.

“I am not hogging the vodka, you’ve already drunk half this bottle. I’ve had barely two swigs.” That voice he didn’t know. The archer’s, presumably.

“Then why are you still holding the bottle? Drink or hand it over, Barton.”

“You’re distracting me. I—“

The two of them fell silent as Steve became visible through the trees. They were sitting on the porch of a small cabin, guard lowered in a moment of domestic peace. Surprised, they blinked at him, then looked at unison up into one of the trees.

Bucky dropped out of that tree a moment later, leaning against it and looking casually over at Steve.

“Evening,” Steve said, stopping at the edge of their homestead and nodding his head politely to the two on the porch before turning his attention to Bucky. He guessed that Bucky had been keeping watch up in the treetops, but he hadn’t sounded the alarm because it was only Steve.

“You really never do give up,” Bucky said, arms folded.

“I’m here to bring the three of you home,” Steve said, looking between the three of them. They didn’t look dangerous like this. Their little set-up was so cozy and familial, with friendly bickering that reminded him of the way his friends in Leadville teased each other.

“Home,” Natasha said, visibly surprised.

“To Leadville. Sheriff Carter is concerned that she might be losing her notary and legal aid, but I assured her that wasn’t the case.”

Natasha looked startled, shifting her gaze to Bucky. “Is he serious?”

“He’s serious,” Bucky confirmed.

“I’m offering the three of you a full pardon. There’s been no record entered that the three of you have any kind of involvement with the Russian Winter gang. And as valued members of Leadville Township, I don’t see any reason there should be.”

The couple on the porch just stared at him.

Pushing away from his tree, Bucky nodded at them. “Think it over. He and I need to talk.”

Without waiting for Steve to follow, Bucky turned and headed off through the trees.

They walked in silence for several minutes. Bucky didn’t object when Steve fell into step at his side, stopping only when they entered a low glen with a little creek running through it and a shady stand of aspen trees. Taking a seat next to one of them, Bucky looked up at him, waiting as Steve took a seat against a tree nearby.

“You finally came up with a plan that ended somehow other than with a rope around my neck,” Bucky said.

“This was always the plan. I just hadn’t yet found the words and you hadn’t yet decided to listen.”

“What made you think I would now?”

Steve smiled, feeling almost like his old self again. It seemed like forever ago that the two of them had wandered a day’s walk off along the Hudson, finding a quiet stand of trees outside of the city and spending the night in their shade. They’d gotten in such trouble for it, but neither of them had ever regretted the adventure. This seemed the same, although the broad Hudson had been replaced by a trickle that barely counted as a creek. “You called me a punk.”

Bucky’s smile was almost imperceptible, but Steve knew what to look for. “I thought you were too far gone to hear that.”

“Liar.”

That smile widened. “I may have wanted you to hear it.”

Bucky looked so different. His long hair fell into his face now, ragged and barbaric. Steve thought it might suit him if he’d just comb it once in a while.

“They might say no, Steve. And even if they agree, it might not work. We came this far out into the middle of nowhere because we are no longer capable of fitting into society.”

Steve knew that he was right, but he didn’t want to accept that. It would work. He was going to make it work. “You might say that’s the anthem of Leadville.”

“We who cannot function in society?” Bucky asked. The old rapport between them was stilted and handicapped, but Steve appreciated the effort on Bucky’s part. There was hope for them.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but we have a couple of war heroes for our Mayor and Sheriff.”

“And Deputy.”

Flustered, Steve looked off toward the sun setting against a mountain peak. “Why did the three of you call yourselves Russian Winter?”

“In war, they called me the Winter Soldier. Natasha was a spy in the Crimea. She’s Russian, I’m Russian—“

“You’re not Russian,” Steve interrupted.

“My grandparents were Russian, you little punk. My family name is _Barinov_. When I went South to live with them, we spoke Russian. I’m an American-born _Russian_. Natasha and Clint found me last winter, doggedly determined to keep walking until I froze to death. They took me in. The three of us were all bitter and broken from war and the cruelties of men. It gave us a reason to bond.”

Steve swallowed, letting himself linger in thought. He supposed that the three in the gang had all had something like a bloodstained cabin in their pasts. Steve had only ever witnessed the atrocities, and yet he could still barely cope with them. He couldn’t fathom what it was like for Bucky.

The twilight deepened as the setting sun stretched the mountain’s shadow out across the smaller hills and mountains around them.

“You did come alone, didn’t you?” Bucky said, narrowing his eyes. “There had better not be an ambush.”

“I came alone. Just like you told them. I’m serious with my offer. I’m not here to capture a gang. I’m here to bring my friends home.”

“You’ll stay the night?” Bucky offered.

Steve pressed his lips together as he felt a smile overtaking them. “Is that an invitation?”

Bucky didn’t answer, letting their conversation linger in another lull. “What am I going to do in Leadville?”

“Build houses. Work in the mine. Play the piano.”

Head lifting, Bucky looked interested. “There’s a piano?”

“Every time Sam plays it just makes me miss you.”

Thinking it over, Bucky nodded absently. “Where would I live?”

“With me. Or in the inn until you get a place of your own.”

“I’ve seen that lonely little cabin of yours.”

“I like my lonely cabin.”

Bucky smiled. “I like your lonely cabin, too.”

Getting to his feet, Bucky held out a hand. “Come on.”

Natasha and Clint were still sitting on the steps when they returned, now both roaring drunk and singing.

“He’s staying the night,” Bucky informed them, getting a pair of inquisitive glances in return. Ignoring that, Bucky walked past them and into the cabin. Steve followed.

It was slightly bigger than his cabin, but it was still only one room. There was one bed, unusually wide and covered in quilts. Wide enough for three, Steve thought. He wondered if that was why Natasha’s marital status seemed to be so unclear.

Bucky just took some of the quilts off the bed, and opened a cabinet to pull out some heavier winter furs. Steve took a bundle of them to carry, and they went back outside.

“We’ll sleep here,” Bucky announced, starting to spread the furs on one side of the porch. Clint and Natasha got up and quietly disappeared inside, giving them the privacy of the evening.

Steve helped, spreading out quilts and letting himself wonder. “Is she your lover?”

Pausing only briefly, Bucky glanced at him and then continued making up their little bed. “They both are.”

Grateful that the twilight hid his blush, Steve ducked his head. “Oh.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Am I _jealous_?”

Bucky just stopped and stared at him. Oh. Apparently that was a legitimate question.

Unsure what was being asked, Steve furrowed his brow, feeling his heart beat within his chest. “Why would you ask that?”

“Because I would be.”

“You… what?”

“If it was you. I would be jealous. I am jealous, honestly. You and your town. You and your friends. But you always went into your little cabin alone.”

Steve opened his mouth and then shut it again, struggling to find words. Bucky was so maddeningly casual about this topic, and Steve felt utterly out of his depth. “What are you saying?”

“You’re the one who refused to give up on me after ten years. What does it sound like?”

“It…” Steve swallowed and sat down by him on the pile of furs. “It sounds like you’re saying you were in love with me. That maybe part of you still is.”

“And that makes you squeamish? God, you always were a pristine little thing.”

“Go blow your fucking horn, Barnes, I know what buggery is.”

“And?”

“And if you’re in love with me, then don’t cheapen it by trying to make me uncomfortable or calling me squeamish when you know that you’re just being a blowhard. Just like you always were. Don’t act like you were mooning over me, when every time we started getting too close you suddenly up and introduced me to your latest girl.”

Stunned silent, Bucky stared at him, and then flopped back onto the furs.

Everything seemed different, now that he looked back on it. Their crowded tenement housing hadn’t allowed for much of any kind of intimacy, and every time either of them brought up a topic that dealt with their emotions, Bucky had deflected it into a vulgar joke. Now Steve saw that he’d been doing the same thing with his various courtships. They’d all just been ways to deflect his jealousy over Steve, jealousy that he hid behind brash talk about stolen kisses with girls.

It was full dark when Bucky spoke again. “I would have moved the stars for you, back then. You were such an unstoppable little idealist. I knew that one day you’d be something great. You already were, to me.”

“I didn’t know,” Steve said, quietly, stretching out at his side. “And I can’t say that I ever… thought about it. Not seriously. I remember wanting to kiss you. But it just seemed so impossible. Unfathomable. The older we got, the less you allowed me to touch you at all, even as friends.”

“I didn’t want you to figure it out.”

“That you were in love with me,” Steve said, for clarification.

“Still am. Or at least the boy I was, buried under all this bitterness, is still in love with the boy you were.”

“I’d like to find out if you can still love the man that I’ve become.”

There was a long pause from Bucky’s side of the bed. “Seriously? What about… I don’t know. That spitfire of a Sheriff. She seems like your type.”

“What about Clint and Natasha?” Steve retorted.

Bucky thought about it. When the silence went on too long, Steve pushed himself up on one elbow. He slid his hand up Bucky’s chest in the darkness, finding his face and then leaning over to kiss his lips. Bucky pulled him down at once, arms fastening tight around Steve’s neck.

The kiss was passionate and intense. All of the kisses Steve had shared before had been chaste, polite things with girls he thought he might like to court. The war had prevented exploring any of them further.

In the army, he’d known of men who shared kisses. Some platoons had different levels of tolerance than others, but it was widely known that it happened. He’d himself gotten more than a few offers, but he’d never genuinely considered them. It wasn’t just intercourse that he wanted. It was love.

Whatever kisses might and might not normally be like between men, their kiss was sweet and deep. Bucky kissed like he talked, with a combination of deep, searing intimacy and brash, defensive playfulness in turns. Steve just held onto him and kept kissing, waiting until the desperation and the defensiveness relaxed and smoothed their edges and Bucky accepted that Steve wouldn’t reject him.

When at last it broke, they hovered near each other, not yet wanting to let go but not knowing how to continue.

“You’re not a bad kisser, Rogers,” Bucky whispered.

“Live with me.”

“Will there be more kisses if I say yes?”

Steve just grinned and kissed him again, sliding his hands up into Bucky’s hair to cradle his head while he explored Bucky’s mouth. He felt Bucky’s hand slide down, cupping around Steve’s groin, but he moved it away. “Not now. Not here. I want to take our time.”

Bucky grunted in complaint. “You’re going to court me, aren’t you?”

“I’m going to court you.”

Grumbling, Bucky nestled against his side, hugging his arms tight around Steve. “You damned romantic.”

~

“Very well,” Natasha said, handing Steve a plate of flapjacks the next morning. It seemed to be Clint’s job to cook, and Natasha had taken it upon herself to distribute breakfast.

“Very well what?”

“Very well, we’ll go with you. To Leadville.”

“Home,” Steve corrected.

“What about Sheriff Carter?” Natasha asked, watching Steve’s reactions with an eagle eye.

“She’ll be glad to have you back. And glad to have a couple extra hands in the town to help out in case of trouble.”

“Trouble like outlaws?” Natasha narrowed her eyes, intentionally incendiary.

“Trouble,” Steve repeated, thinking of the group of men who had called Leadville the ‘Amazon’s town’. He watched Clint and Natasha, but they made no overtures of jealousy at the way that Bucky had settled himself close against Steve’s side. It made Steve feel fond of them. He had a sense that there was an open invitation for Bucky to return to their bed, but they didn’t for an instant begrudge him finding love elsewhere.

He didn’t think he felt jealous, not with the way Bucky hovered close to him and so clearly wanted him nearby. If the three of them sometimes vanished off alone to this little sanctuary of theirs, Steve didn’t think he had it in his heart to mind. Not when he felt so certain that Bucky would spent six nights out of seven in Steve’s cabin and Steve’s bed.

Resting his hand over Bucky’s, he watched him with a smile, feeling his heart soar at the big, hopeful smile that Bucky gave him in return.

There was a whole town waiting for them, where the four of them had a place to belong. There were people waiting for Steve to return.

Grinning wide, Steve hugged his arms around Bucky’s waist and hauled him in to kiss his cheek. Laughing as Bucky flailed at him and tried playfully to dodge the kisses, he ended up abandoning breakfast in favor of play-wrestling while Clint and Natasha cheered for Bucky from the sidelines and booed cheerfully whenever Steve had the upper hand.

His friends. His town.

Home.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be followed on tumblr at marlowe-tops, which is a purely Winter Soldier blog pretty much until further notice. I'm also currently producing a few Steve/Bucky ficlets that are too small to be posted on AO3, all under my "marlowe fics" tag on tumblr.


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